Swings and Roundabouts
by rahleeyah
Summary: Follow up to Shut Up and Dance. As Ruth and Harry embark on a personal relationship, Ruth finds herself struggling to navigate their changing circumstances. The risks are many, and Ruth must decide if the benefits of loving Harry outweigh the costs. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story picks up immediately following my one-shot** _ **Shut Up and Dance.**_ **It would help to read that first.**

* * *

The song drew to a close, and they swayed to a stop, Ruth's head resting gently on Harry's shoulder, a sense of contentment and wonder such as she had never known coloring the scene, the sparkling lights of the party shimmering through the doors, the sounds of the city below gentle as a lullaby. For a moment they lingered together; Harry pressed a tender kiss against her temple, and Ruth sighed, sinking that much further against him. It was strange, to finally be standing here, sheltered within the warmth of his embrace, not running or resisting but finally accepting him, accepting them together. It was strange, but it was beautiful, too, and Ruth savored every second of the contact between them. They could not remain in that place indefinitely, she knew, much as she might to long to; the world beyond beckoned to them, in the soft tinkle of conversations floating through the doors behind them, in the honking of a car horn far below. Still, though, this moment was theirs and theirs alone, and Ruth was determined to enjoy it.

"Would you like to get something to eat?" Harry asked her quietly.

She lifted her head, gazing up at him, wondering how it was possible that she'd only kissed him twice in the eight long years they'd known one another, wondering how she had resisted the temptation for so long. Though she supposed there was no reason to resist him now; she had no defenses left. She had told him the truth of her heart, had told him how she loved him, had laid bare her heart and her greatest fears before him, and he had taken her in his arms and dispelled her every doubt.

In that moment she would have liked, very much, to have said something clever, something seductive, something appropriately suggestive given the nature of their conversation, the need that was coursing through her as a result of standing cradled against the solid heat of his body, but no such witticism came to her.

"What?" she asked breathlessly, a little dazed by his nearness and the taste of him that lingered on her tongue.

"No one ever eats the food at these things," Harry explained, jerking a finger over his shoulder to indicate the party they had abandoned. "I was thinking, we could both do with a bit of dinner. We could go somewhere, together, if you like."

There was something shy, almost sheepish in his request, and she smiled up at him, indulging herself for a moment in smoothing her hands over his lapels, feeling the broad plane of his chest spreading out beneath her fingertips. For so many years she had thought of this, imagined herself touching him this way, casually, intimately, knowingly, and the reality of it was far more appealing than she had ever anticipated. Her heart pounded at his nearness, her thoughts racing, trying so hard to keep up with the shifting of the sands beneath her feet. "I would like to, very much," she conceded. "But," she added, hating that she had to protest, knowing she had no other choice, "Towers has arranged a driver for me this evening. I don't want word to get back to him, if I find another way home. And…" her voice trailed off, those doubts that had for the last few minutes receded into the ether making their way back to the fore once more. "People would talk, if we left together."

Harry sighed, clasping his hands together at the small of her back, drawing her closer to him, the tension in his arms speaking louder than words of his own turmoil, his own distress, his own desires. It was clear Harry did not want to let her go any more than Ruth wanted to leave him, and it was clear, as well, that this thing between them would not be so easy as they both hoped. Though Ruth did not particularly care what anyone might say about _her,_ though she was confident in the knowledge that she had secured her position on her own merits and no one would be foolish enough to suggest that Towers had brought her on board because she was sleeping with a spy who had spent the last two months on suspension while facing charges of treason, she did worry about what people might say about Harry. _It undermines your authority,_ she had told him once, her heart breaking as she spoke those words. She feared the same was true now, that wagging tongues might damage his reputation, should he be seen leaving the gala arm-in-arm with the woman he had thrown his career away to protect. That had to be avoided at all costs.

"I'm not saying never, Harry," she murmured, shifting in his arms to press her lips against his neck. "I'm not even saying not tonight. I'm just saying, we need to leave separately, and I need to let my driver take me home."

"And then?" he asked, naked hope in his voice.

"And then," she answered, kissing him again for no other reason than that she had spent the last eight years dreaming about dragging her tongue up the column of his throat above his crisp white shirt, "you could come over to mine, if you like. I'm sure we can find something edible in my pantry."

Harry chuckled, rubbing his hands up and down her back, his touch setting her ablaze even through her dress. She shivered, not from the chill spring air, but from the thought of those hands, and the delight they promised her, should she be brave enough to take him home and into her bed. She had offered, now, though she knew that Harry, ever the gentleman, would wait for her to give him the signal, to indicate whether she was ready for more. As to that question, she could not say; she _felt_ ready, felt she wanted nothing more in that moment than to drag him straight home and into her bed, to lose herself to the touch of his hands, but she worried that perhaps it was too much too fast, to go from barely speaking to sleeping together in the course of one evening. There were only so many changes she could handle at one time.

Then again, it _was_ her birthday.

"So long as we're agreed, I'm only coming over for dinner," Harry said, kissing her forehead once before taking a step back from her, straightening his jacket and clearing his throat uncomfortably. Harry was not prone to blushing; there was very little that could shock him, after spending so many years dealing with the seedy underbelly of human nature, but as she looked at him in the sparkling lights Ruth noticed that the very tips of his ears had turned pink, clearly visible beneath his newly-shorn hair.

"Of course," she answered, feeling her own face burn at the thought of what else she might offer him, if only she were brave enough. For a long moment he looked at her, an expression of such unbridled delight on his face as she had not seen there since the moment she agreed to go to dinner with him the first time, so many years before. So much time had passed; they had suffered so many losses, borne so many grievances, broken one another in half and carefully picked up the pieces. It was mind boggling, really, to think of all they had endured, to think that they were still standing here, together, contemplating a future that was not bleak and grim and lonely, but infinitely brighter than either of them could have managed only an hour before.

"You go first," he told her. "I'll give you a thirty minute head start. That should be sufficient to avoid arousing suspicion."

"All right," she agreed. Still, though, she lingered, unable and unwilling to break the enchantment that had fallen upon them. It was a beautiful night, and Harry cut a gallant figure in his tuxedo, all broad shoulders and smoldering eyes, and Ruth herself was wearing a lovely dress, feeling for once elegant enough to stand beside him. There was music and dancing and shimmering lights and a veritable river of champagne, and Harry had told her that he loved her. It was more exquisite, more magnificent than any dream, more than she had ever imagined, more than she could ever have hoped for, and she wanted to imprint this moment in her mind, the sight of him, the smell of him, the soft whisper of her dress sighing as she moved, a memory for her to treasure for the rest of her life, no matter what awaited them.

Quite suddenly Harry reached out and cradling her cheek in his palm, bringing her to him for another kiss, his lips soft and tender, his tongue brushing against hers once, briefly, a touch filled with promise, before he withdrew, smiling at her bashfully.

"Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?" he asked her softly.

"You look rather dashing yourself," she answered, feeling her cheeks redden once again at his words. She had never been very good at accepting compliments, but in this case her response was not intended solely as a deflection; he _did_ look rather nice.

"Go on, Ruth," he urged her, giving her a little nudge. "The sooner you leave, the sooner we can eat."

She blushed all the harder at the unintended innuendo of his words but she did as she was bid, slipping through the doors and back into the ballroom. She made her way to a corner of the room where she retrieved her mobile from her clutch and fired off a quick message to her driver. The response was all but instantaneous; _five minutes,_ it said. With that settled, she set off to find Towers and bid him goodnight.

It was a good thing, she mused as she weaved her way through the sparkling sea of humanity before her, that Towers cut such an imposing figure; her thoughts were swirling, chaotic, utterly consumed with Harry, her heart pounding harder each time she imagined having him in her home, her cheeks aching from the smile she could not seem to dispell.

 _Get ahold of yourself,_ she thought sternly, trying to school her features as her eyes settled on Towers and she made her way over to him.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked her jovially as she reached him. In truth, Ruth had already spent more time at the gala than she'd originally intended and the party was showing signs of slowing down, guests trickling through the door, the dancefloor all but deserted.

"Unless you need me?" she couched the words as a question, silently praying that he had no more need of her tonight.

"I think we've done what we came here to do," he allowed. "But there is one matter we need to discuss."

With a small, discrete gesture he drew her attention to the balcony doors through which she'd just exited, the same doors through which Harry was stepping at that very moment. "I couldn't help but notice," Towers continued, "you and Harry appear to have had a little chat."

The balloon of happiness that had been slowly swelling within Ruth's chest from the moment Harry's lips first touched hers suddenly deflated, and she found herself quite suddenly overcome with dread, wary and defensive once again. Could they not have even one night, she asked herself angrily, without the constant poking and prodding of meddlesome colleagues? She had been so sure that things were finally going her way, that all the pieces on the chessboard had finally been arranged to her advantage, that she and Harry might finally be granted the opportunity to seize a bit of happiness for themselves. With a few short words, Towers had ripped a hole straight through her fragile dreams.

"Just a chat," Ruth answered carefully. "We've not spoken for some time, as you well know."

Towers grunted in the affirmative, his expression somewhat pained at the reminder of the turmoil they'd all endured over the last few months. "Did he give you any indication as to his thoughts regarding our deal with the Russians?"

Ruth very nearly breathed a sigh of relief. So this conversation was to be about work, and not her own tumultuous personal life. Work, she could handle. Anything else sent her cowering into the corner.

"I think he's made his opinions quite clear," Ruth responded. This was a delicate line to walk, between defending Harry and providing her boss with the information he had requested. She would not betray Harry's confidence, and she was loath to establish herself as some sort of intermediary between Harry and Towers; it was her job to analyze intelligence, not pass missives back and forth between the Home Secretary and his Head of Counter-terrorism like some sort of errand girl. And it would not do, to flaunt her relationship with Harry, professional or otherwise, to Towers. Yes, it was a balancing act, and one she feared would take time to master.

"He needs to get it in his head that the Cold War has ended," Towers grumbled.

Ruth fought the urge to roll her eyes; she had no interest in discussing Harry or his politics any further this evening. "He will do what he thinks is best for the country," she said, hoping that would put an end to it. It would appear that Towers had something else in mind, however.

"Ruth," he said in a tone of voice that bordered on pleading, "I know how much he respects you. He _listens_ to you. God knows he doesn't listen to anyone else."

"Home Secretary," Ruth began to protest, but Towers barreled on, heedless.

"We need these people, Ruth. We live in an era of global terrorism. Terrorists cross borders with impunity, use the internet to connect with one another, and what happens in one country is echoed in another. We have got to work together with foreign governments. We can't afford to take our toys and go home."

"Harry knows that better than anyone," Ruth responded. She regretted the words the minute she spoke them, regretted rushing so passionately to his defense; so much for keeping her distance. Her heart sank in her chest, as she considered the possible reasons Towers might have for instigating this conversation with her, the conclusions he had drawn from spying she and Harry through the balcony doors. Had he seen their dance? Their kiss? Did he know, she asked herself, just how close she and Harry really were?

"What I need from you, Ruth, is to remind him of that. It would only make him cross, if I told him to keep a level head. He'll respond better, hearing it from you."

"I will suggest that he resist his natural inclination towards churlishness," Ruth answered waspishly. Beside her, Towers gave a dark chuckle.

"Your country thanks you, Ruth," he told her seriously. With those words he extended his hand, and she took it, shaking briefly before he released her and took a step away.

"Don't let me keep you," he said magnanimously, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Ruth looked at him sharply, but his face gave no indication as to his suspicions regarding her plans for the night. She thanked him and rushed away, leaving the party far behind her, unable to free herself from the worries that dogged her steps. Only a few moments before she had wrapped her hands around the dearest longing of her heart, but still she was fretful, desperately anxious about what the future might bring, and more frightened than she could say. For so long, she and Harry had denied themselves, had hidden behind duty and propriety, had shirked their personal feelings in favor of their professional obligations. While she hoped that their circumstances had changed enough to allow room for their romance to bloom, she could not shake the sense that they did not deserve this joy, that cruel fate would raise its head once more, and tear them asunder, for good and all this time.


	2. Chapter 2

Ruth bustled around her kitchen, unable to focus on any one task as her thoughts swirled through her mind, questions and fears and hopes and decidedly indecent imaginings vying for her attention. _Tea first,_ she told herself sternly, trying to dispell thoughts of Harry and his impending visit and everything it would mean to her, to him, to _them._ There was a _them_ to be worried about now, though Ruth knew in her heart it had always been _them,_ ever since the day Tom Quinn sent a bullet tearing through Harry's shoulder. Pretending to be his mistress in the hospital had been an operational decision, but it had planted the seed in her mind, made her realize that it wasn't such an impossible thing, falling in love with Harry. Losing her faith in Tom had forced her ever nearer to Harry; that day, faced with the threat of losing him completely, had cemented his position in her heart, had forced her to admit that he was the rock she clung to, the still point in the center of her madly spinning world. From that day onward she had relied on him, trusted in him, confided in him, had traded her life for his freedom, her family for his love.

She filled the kettle and then spun away, shuffling through her pantry, bemoaning her lack of edible foodstuffs. Stale biscuits and red wine would hardly make for a proper dinner, and she so badly wanted to do this properly, wanted to be a good host, wanted to make Harry feel comfortable and welcome in her home. This would mark the first time he had visited her in this flat, and she wanted him to like what he saw. She tried to imagine it through his eyes, unable to stop herself comparing this cozy little flat to the home she'd had before Cotterdam. Harry had visited her there, had come running the night she rang him to sort out Gary and his madness; how strange that had been, having Harry in her kitchen, drinking her whiskey, his eyes flashing at her in the darkness, her cheeks flaming as she wondered what it might be like to invite him round under different circumstances. So many years had passed, since that fateful night, and so much had changed, yet still she was anxious about spending time alone with him, feeling as bumbling and uncertain as a schoolgirl.

Ruth turned her back on the pantry, resigned to cooking pasta and a simple sauce for Harry; she crossed to the sink, and berated herself as she realized that in her distraction she hadn't even started the kettle.

 _Stop this now,_ she told herself firmly, abandoning all of her efforts and taking a seat at the table, desperate for a moment of peace. She had not even taken the time to change her clothes, a fact she lamented when her little cat leapt into her lap and promptly curled up, covering her soft blue dress in a blanket of fine ginger hairs. She sighed, gently scratching the cat behind the ears, trying to get her bearings. The whole night felt like nothing so much as a dream, her emotions ranging from despondency to elation and back again with such speed that she felt a bit whiplashed, unable to process anything at all. She had told Harry she loved him, but she could not fathom what came next. Would they become a couple, then, she wondered, a proper couple, going out on dates, lazing around the house in their socks, sharing the newspaper and arguing good-naturedly about what to watch on the telly? She couldn't quite imagine it somehow, couldn't quite picture them engaged in something so normal, so simple, so domestic. Their relationship had been so fraught for so long that she could not envision a world in which they were together, and happy, and free from troubles.

What bothered her more than her own doubts was the fact that she did not know what Harry would expect from her now. The kisses they had shared on that balcony had been warm, and inviting, and fizzling with passion, but she quailed at the thought of what came next, wondering if Harry thought their declarations of mutual feeling had been sufficient to catapult them immediately into a level of intimacy they'd not yet explored, despite the fact that they had not spoken to one another in months. Ruth wanted that, wanted _him,_ but she was frightened, too, worried that they might burn too quickly, blaze too brightly, and find themselves and their desires all too quickly extinguished.

 _He said he's only coming for dinner,_ she reminded herself as she continued to stroke the cat curled in her lap, drawing comfort from the little creature's steady presence. Harry had always been the very soul of courtesy, where she was concerned, and though her anxious thoughts ran riot she knew he had tried, in his own way, to reassure her before she parted from him. This was not something that could be planned, she knew; a relationship was not an operation, with failsafes and back-up plans and code words designed to bring in the cavalry at a moment's notice. But Ruth had never been very good at letting things _just crinkle out,_ as Adam would say. She needed to _know._

 _He'll be here soon enough,_ she thought, but no sooner had those words crossed her mind than she heard a soft knocking upon her front door. She bolted to her feet, abruptly displacing her cat, who threw her a long suffering look before retreating to the rug in the corner. Ruth raced for the door, sliding down her hallway in bare feet, desperately trying to brush away the cat hair and school her face into a properly welcoming sort of expression, trying to push aside her morose thoughts and focus instead on the pleasure of having Harry here, in her home, all to herself, for the very first time.

She swung the door wide and there he stood, her Harry, magnificent still in his tuxedo, clutching a small bundle of flowers and smiling at her softly.

"Hello," she said, somewhat bashfully, suddenly struck by the difference in their heights. From the time she'd left university Ruth had favored shoes with raised heels, her beloved chunky boots or comfortable, work-appropriate pumps, anything to help her disguise the fact that she was in truth really quite short. Harry himself was not a tall man, but he stood a good head taller than she, and she smiled up at him now, remembering how well she fit within the circle of his arms.

"Hello," he answered, his voice gentle and warm, flowing over her, soothing her battered nerves at once.

"Come in," she said, having realized that as nice as he looked it would not do to leave him standing on the doorstep all evening. She stepped aside, allowing him room to enter her home, watching him carefully as he took it in, his eyes roving, evaluating, his expression for once open and unguarded.

"These are for you-"

"Cup of tea?"

They spoke at the same time, Harry offering her the flowers even as she gestured towards the kitchen. She smiled, the tension that had been brewing deep in her chest leaving her all at once as she let loose a breathless chuckle.

"Yes please-"

"They're lovely-"

It was Harry's turn to laugh as once more they stumbled over one another, each of them delighted and bemused and eager, though Ruth could not say for what. She reached out and took the flowers from him, wondering where on earth he'd found them, given the lateness of the hour.

"Thank you," she murmured. For the space of a heartbeat she contemplated raising herself up onto her toes and kissing his cheek in gratitude, but her courage deserted her, and instead she spun on her heel and led the way towards the kitchen. Only an hour before she had pressed her lips against his neck, surrounded by the heat of him, but now she could not find the confidence to bridge the gap between them, to reignite the fragile closeness they'd only just established.

 _Breathe,_ she told herself as she fumbled through her cabinets in search of a vase for the flowers. _Just breathe._

"This is nice," Harry said, the sound of his voice drawing her attention to him as she straightened up, clutching the vase in trembling hands. He gave a small gesture, indicating the flat around them.

"It's not much," she answered truthfully. "But it's home."

"That's all that matters," he told her.

Carefully Ruth filled the vase and placed the flowers inside before crossing the kitchen and setting them down on the table, where they made a lovely centerpiece. Under the bright light overhead the flowers did in fact look a little bit sickly, pale and somewhat lopsided, but Harry had taken the time to buy her flowers, and the thought filled her heart nearly to bursting with love of him, with appreciation for all the gentle ways he had tried over the years to woo her, to reassure her, to comfort her. He really was a thoughtful man, her Harry, beneath all the bluster.

"How about that tea, then?" she asked, but as she turned away from the table she caught him in the act of trying - and failing - to remove his bow tie.

"Here," she said, taking a deep, fortifying breath as she crossed the kitchen to stand before him. "Let me help you."

His arms swung uselessly down to his sides in silent capitulation, and so Ruth reached up and began to carefully untangle the knot, fighting the urge to chide him playfully for having made such a mess of it. The faint scent of his cologne, the heat rolling off of him in waves made her nearly dizzy with want, shocked by her own familiarity in offering to help him. She didn't feel as if she were taking advantage, however; if anything, Harry seemed pleased that she'd taken the initiative. He was smiling down at her, his eyes alight with wonder, his lips so very close to her own that she found herself quite overcome with longing to kiss him again. Still, though, she hesitated, knowing that they needed to talk, properly, though in truth she dreaded that conversation.

"There," she said when it was done, carefully sliding the tie free from his collar and handing it off to him. Harry accepted it with a softly murmured _thanks,_ his fingertips ghosting over her skin. It was overwhelming, really, being this close to him, hyper aware of where they were, of all the potential inherent in her having him over so late at night.

"Tea," she answered, spinning away from him, checking on their supper in the process, trying to still the clamouring of her heart.

"Please don't go to any trouble," Harry told her as he took a seat at her table. Though Ruth could not see him, she fancied she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her shoulders, and she shivered slightly beneath his scrutiny. For the last two years Ruth had been alone, floating through her life on a sea of misery and self-recrimination, blaming herself for the calamity that had befallen her. She had, however briefly, dreamed of a future with George, and George had paid the price for that dream with his life. In the years since his death she had not once entertained the notion of embarking upon a new romance; she was too busy at work, too busy hating herself, too busy trying to keep Harry out of harm's way, and her heart had been neglected in the process, banished to some dark corner to languish in obscurity. Now, though, he heart had been properly unfettered, and the one man she truly loved, the only one who had ever broken through her defenses and burrowed beneath her skin was sitting at her kitchen table, watching her as she cooked his supper. It was a strange and beautiful thing, this delicate understanding she and Harry had reached, and the battles she'd fought, the roads she'd traveled to reach this point seemed to pale in significance when compared to the joy of having Harry here.

"It's no trouble," she demurred as she tended to the pasta. In truth she felt a bit silly, flouncing around her kitchen in the most expensive dress she'd ever worn, but she was enjoying the delicious torture of Harry's proximity far too much to abandon him now, even for a moment.

"I meant to tell you earlier," Harry said, the chair creaking beneath him as he stretched, making himself comfortable. "That really is a lovely dress. It suits you."

Ruth was grateful for the pasta and the excuse it gave her to keep her back turned towards him; her cheeks were burning at Harry's compliment. Though he had followed her progress across the Grid with hungry eyes for the last eight years he had not ever really commented on her appearance, and now he had done so twice in one evening, the words falling from his lips so easily that she felt she had no choice but to believe them. That he cared for her, that he was intrigued by her, that her mind drew his interest was no secret, but this was something else, this quiet, gentle acknowledgement of the physical attraction that simmered between them. It was new, and somewhat frightening for Ruth, who was having rather a hard time keeping up with the rapidly changing dynamic of their interaction.

"Thank you. My PA found it for me, I'll have to give it back tomorrow."

The pasta was done, and soon Ruth would have no choice but to join him at the table. She dawdled, though, drawing out their careful dance, postponing the moment when she would have to turn and look him in the eye.

"That's a shame," Harry said. "You ought to keep it."

"I'm not sure I can afford it," she said, forcing a little chuckle as she plated up their meals. There was nothing for it now; she took a deep breath and turned, carrying the food over to the table.

"This looks wonderful, Ruth." Every word he'd spoken to her since arriving in her home had been tender and full of praise; he was trying, in his own way, to put her at ease, to communicate to her his delight at having been invited to her home, and in the flow of admiration from his lips Ruth heard those words he could not say. She was happy, too, happy that he was here, that so far she had managed not to muck things up, that they seemed to floating along in harmony for once, and so she only smiled.

"Something to drink?" she offered. "I think there's a bit of wine around here somewhere."

"Wine would be lovely," came the answer. Ruth shuffled off in search of wine, berating herself as she realized that she had never actually managed to start the kettle; thankfully, Harry hadn't seemed too bothered that she'd failed to provide him with the requisite cup of tea. In a flash the wine was poured, and Ruth was taking her seat across from Harry, sighing in resignation when the cat, having sensed an opportunity, once more made herself at home in Ruth's lap.

"Do you take all your meals this way, Ruth?" Harry asked her, a teasing note to his voice as he indicated the little cat. Though she was loath to admit it, Ruth _did_ actually eat most of her meals with the cat curled up on her lap; she couldn't quite find it in her heart to tell the little animal no.

"She's a bit neurotic," Ruth explained wryly, shuffling herself around until she could reach her dinner without disturbing the cat. "She doesn't like to let me out of her sight."

"Does she have a name?" Harry asked pleasantly, taking a sip of his wine. Ruth cursed the harshness of the light hanging over the table; she would have given anything, in that moment, to be watching him in the flickering glow of candlelight instead. He had a face made for candlelight, the weary lines around his mouth softened in the shadows, flecks of gold dancing in his eyes. It would have suited the mood as well, the sense of endless possibility and wonder and hope that colored the scene and lifted her spirits with each passing second.

"Felicity," Ruth answered, smiling down at the cat fondly.

"You have a penchant for giving your pets unusual names, if I recall correctly."

The blissful ease of the moment stuttered slightly, tension tightening Ruth's shoulders infinitesimally as he spoke those words. The shadow of Cotterdam reared its head, a bitter, terrible memory gnashing its teeth against Ruth's neck, threatening to burst the sense of peace that had fallen upon her. He had adopted her cats, when Ruth was torn away from her life; he'd taken Fidget and Calliope home with him, and cared for them as his own, though Fidget had died in her absence, and Calliope had followed not long after her return. In bringing up the memory of her dearly beloved moggies, Harry had, however inadvertently, reminded her of the dangers of being close to him, reminded her that she had, three times now, nearly lost her life for no reason other than that Harry loved her. _What's done is done,_ she told herself. _Leave the past where it is._

"I took her in not long after I moved here," Ruth explained, trying to grasp hold of the lightheartedness that had colored their interactions before the shadow of the past descended upon her. "She was hanging about outside, and one day I found her sitting on the steps. It was raining, and she just looked so pitiful, I couldn't bear it. I brought her in, and her whole attitude changed immediately. She wouldn't leave my side; she's really a very affectionate creature. I thought Felicity an apt name, given how happy she was to be home."

Harry hummed a bit at that, and Ruth took a bite of pasta, the clinking sounds of glasses and flatware filling her kitchen for the first time since she'd moved there. _This is nice,_ she thought, smiling across the table at him fondly. Any concerns she might have had, about Harry pressuring her, pushing for more, faded beneath the flow of his comfortable conversation. They had danced around disaster, and come through it unscathed, settling on a safer topic than Ruth's exile and blood-soaked return. Perhaps, she told herself as she watched him, they had finally moved past the darkness of their history, emerging into the bright sunlight of their future.

"I've been thinking of getting a dog," Harry told her confidentially after a few moments of comfortable silence.

"Have you?"

He nodded, taking another sip of his wine. "I know my job isn't really conducive to caring for a pet," he continued, "but I find I miss the companionship. A house isn't a home, without a dog in it."

"Or a cat," Ruth protested, blushing when his honey-brown eyes flickered to her face, his expression almost adoring.

"Or a cat," he conceded. "I've always had a dog around the house. My little Jack Russell, Scarlet, passed away last year, and I've not had the time to see about getting a new one."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ruth murmured softly, struck by a sudden sadness at the thought of Harry, alone in his house on suspension, without work or a dog or Ruth to distract him from his dire circumstances.

Harry waved his hand, dispelling her momentary sorrow. "She had a good long life," he said. "But now I think it's time to move on."

 _Indeed it is,_ Ruth thought, though it was not dogs that occupied her mind in that moment, but she and Harry. They had mourned enough, the pair of them. The time had come to take a step forward.

"This hypothetical dog of yours," she began with a confidence she did not feel, "he would have to like cats."

"Would he now?" Harry responded, placing his wine glass on the table and leaning towards her, his gaze intent and focused on her face as he sensed the change in atmosphere between them. "And what about Felicity here? Does she like dogs?"

This was something they did quite well, Ruth and Harry, saying one thing but meaning another, their intent hidden beneath layers of obfuscation but nonetheless quite clear, at least to one another. Ruth had never known a man who played this particular game quite as well as Harry, who understood that sometimes she sought refuge in metaphor, unable and unwilling to be blunt about her desires. Harry didn't seem to mind; if anything, he seemed to enjoy the back-and-forth, the playful innuendo.

"Oh, she likes everyone, so long as she's given her space," Ruth answered carefully.

"Perhaps they could be friends, your cat and my dog," Harry suggested.

A blush blossomed across Ruth's cheeks but she held her ground, smiling at him across the table. She knew all too well what he was implying, but for once, she was not afraid of it. Harry was no longer her boss, and there was no one around to see, no Home Secretary looming in the shadows. Only they remained, only they mattered, and the simplicity of that realization left Ruth rather delighted.

"We'll have to introduce them," she said, fighting the urge to laugh at the shocked expression that danced in the depths of Harry's eyes for a moment.

"At the first possible opportunity." Harry's voice had dropped to a deep, rumbling growl, and the sound of it sent shivers coursing up and down the length of Ruth's spine. That was as close to the flames of desire that flickered between them as she was willing to go, at present; she was tired, and somewhat out of sorts, and she wanted very much to keep things light between them, to avoid reigniting the nerves that had so plagued her before his arrival.

With careful hands she placed Felicity on the floor and rose from her chair, gathering up their empty plates and shuffling them off to the sink, her dress whispering softly as she moved, Harry's eyes, hungry and uncertain, watching her every move.


	3. Chapter 3

Ruth was warm and happy, curled into the corner of her sofa with her legs tucked up underneath her, Felicity dozing comfortably in her lap, a glass of wine and Harry both close at hand. In truth she had grown terribly drowsy, struggling to keep her eyelids open as she followed the flow of gentle conversation, Harry's voice washing over her in waves, soothing her battered heart, leaving her content and blissful in its wake. She would have to send him on his way soon, she knew; it was late, and they both had to work in the morning. Still, though, she lingered, unwilling to bring an end to what had in truth been a lovely evening. They had danced and kissed and shared a meal, and now Harry was sitting on the other end of her sofa, his bow tie long since disposed of and his jacket discarded over the back of her armchair. He was facing her, his legs stretched out in front of him and one arm draped over the back of the sofa, allowing her an uninhibited view of the broad expanse of his chest, the faintest hint of stubble visible along his jawline. He looked _right,_ sitting there with her, drinking her whiskey and smiling at her softly. Though she had lived here for two long years, this flat had never before felt like home. With Harry there beside her, however, she found that her feelings towards this place had improved significantly.

There was still a meddlesome voice in the back of her mind, however, reminding her of the conversation she'd had with Towers, the precarious nature of their current situation. It would have to be addressed, she knew; much as she would like to pretend it had never happened, Harry needed to know what Towers had seen, what he suspected, and the message he had tried to deliver through Ruth. She had a message of her own to send, one that was for Harry's ears only, and she knew she needed to speak now, before she fell asleep on her sofa still wearing that beautiful dress.

"I have to tell you, Harry," she began carefully during a lull in their conversation. He smiled across at her with the air of a very satisfied man. She could not recall having ever seen him smile quite so much, and she was loath to introduce the specter of their work. It had to be done, though, she knew; their work had made them who they were, brought them together, shaped them through fire and calamity into two people who depended upon one another wholly and unreservedly. They were each of them bound to their duty, duty to their country and their fellow citizens, doomed to continue fighting this battle for as long as they could. They were soldiers, after a fashion, brothers-in-arms, though Ruth would never have spoken that particular phrase aloud. The fight did not end simply because they had fallen in love. There were enemies yet to be defeated lurking in the shadows.

"I spoke with Towers before I left," she continued, hating the way the smile slowly slipped away from Harry's lips, the corners of his eyes tightening infinitesimally as he registered the change in the atmosphere between them. She longed to reach out to him, to comfort him, but she was tired, and afraid, and she worried that if she touched him now she would never get the chance to deliver her news, that she would be utterly swept away by the heat and the glory of him.

"He saw us go out on the balcony together." At those words Harry reached up and ran a weary hand over his face, rubbing his eyes in resigned exhaustion. He shifted slightly, leaning towards her, his eyes beseeching, but she did not give into him, not now, not yet. "I don't know what he saw," she said, offering what little reassurance she could, "but he has apparently decided that given our...history, with one another, that I would be the ideal candidate to deliver a message to you."

"Ruth," Harry said softly, leaning that much closer to her, "he had no business asking you to do that. You're entirely too valuable to have your talents wasted acting as an intermediary-"

"It's my job to be an intermediary, Harry," she pointed out. "I'm not just analyzing intelligence, I'm also the Home Secretary's liaison with Five and Six. I do agree that he was out of line this evening, though."

"What did he say?"

Though the tone of their conversation had shifted rather dramatically, Ruth was actually quite pleased at how easily they seemed to be navigating this, discussing work at home. It was inevitable, really, given the nature of their jobs, that moments such as this would arise, though she wasn't sure when she'd next have the opportunity to sit beside Harry while he wore his tuxedo. She couldn't help thinking that if only they managed to survive this conversation, if only they could find a way to maintain their professional relationship while also making time for the personal, they might stand a chance of surviving their love for one another. It might not be easy, but then, she had never met anyone more stubborn than Harry. If anyone could stick it out, it would be him.

"He's concerned that your judgment is clouded by your history with the Russians." At those words Harry's eyes darkened, righteous indignation flaring in their depths, and Ruth found she was too tired to fight her impulses where he was concerned any longer. She reached out and placed her hand gently on his forearm where it rested along the back of the sofa, her fingers curling around him, pressing against him, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt. "I know you will do what you think is best for the country, Harry, and I told him so," she murmured. Harry's gaze flickered briefly from her face down to where her hand rested against him, some emotion she could not fathom dancing across his features. "I know you have your reservations. To be honest, I share those reservations. We don't know what agenda the Russians are pursuing just yet, and we have to look out for our own interests. Towers is a politician, he wants to make a deal, but I promise you, I will do everything I can to keep him from making a compromise we can't accept." By _we_ , Ruth meant Harry and herself; she wondered for a moment if she needed to clarify that point, but one look at Harry's face told her that he had read her meaning plainly. In that instant she was deeply grateful for all the years of hardship that had preceded this moment, all their trials and tribulations, for it was in the crucible of the Grid that their relationship had been forged, that they had learned to speak to one another without words, to read each other's hearts in a single glance.

"I'm glad I have your support on this, Ruth," Harry told her, his voice low, and husky, and entirely too intimate given the subject at hand; perhaps he was thinking, as she was, of everything they had been through, and all the joys they'd yet to experience together, dancing tantalizingly just out of reach.

"You will always have my support, Harry," she answered. "But I need you to tread softly. Towers is a politician, and he needs to be handled carefully. I know you find pandering to his ego distasteful, but he can be prickly. Let me take lead on this. Trust me."

Carefully Harry slid his arm out of her grasp; for a moment Ruth was bereft at the loss of his warmth beneath her fingertips, but that sense of loss was banished in an instant as he reached out and caught her hand in his own, threading their fingers together and smiling at her gently in the dim glow of her little lamp. "I trust you implicitly, Ruth. I always have."

"Always?" she could not stop herself from asking, recalling the way she had come to him in the beginning, the months she had spent working as a mole. The moment the word left her lips she regretted it, regretted reminding him that there was ever a time when they were working at cross purposes, but she had no need to be alarmed. He simply squeezed her hand, and kept right on smiling.

"Always," he answered. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it once, softly, tenderly, before releasing her and sliding to his feet. "It's late," he told her, casting about for his jacket. Ruth felt a pang of regret as he tugged it on, hiding himself once more beneath his armor, preparing himself to leave her. Though she knew he was right, though she knew it was best that he make his way home, that they each try to rest as much as they could before the coming day, she was truly sorry to see him go.

"I'll see you out," she murmured, carefully placing Felicity on the sofa, stretching her shoulders as she stood, feeling the tender ache of her weary muscles crying out for sleep. True to her word she followed him down the hall, lingering for a moment just inside the door.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Ruth," Harry's voice rumbled through the semi-darkness.

"Thank you for coming," she responded, blushing just a little when he reached out to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, a shiver running through her when his fingertips brushed across her cheek. For a moment Harry hesitated, tension rising between them as they each began to breathe a little faster, knowing he needed to leave and yet yearning to stay in this moment together just a little longer. Ruth was frightened and elated in equal measure, to think of the ground they had covered on this night, to think of all that lay in store for them, if only they could continue in this way, drawing closer together, leaning on one another, sharing the broken pieces of their hearts. This night was a beautiful gift, a wondrous, fragile thing she had long ago stopped wishing for, believing in her heart that they had wounded one another one too many times. She wanted to apologize for the role she had played in their near destruction, for the fear and the anger and the hurt that had sharpened her tongue, for the bitter words she'd thrown at him when she was too consumed by her own grief to acknowledge that he was hurting as well. _That's in the past,_ she told herself. _Focus on the present._

Apparently Harry was of the same mind; Ruth took one tentative step towards him, and Harry took that as all the permission he needed. He snaked one arm around her waist, drawing her in close against him, smiling down at her for just a moment before he lowered his head, and brushed a kiss against her lips.

 _I love you,_ Ruth thought, opening her mouth to whisper those words to him, wanting nothing so much as to hear them echoed back to her in his warm voice, but before she could speak he kissed her again, harder this time, and she gave herself up to it completely, winding her arms around his neck and throwing all of her hopes, all of her want, all of her love of him into a fierce, passionate embrace. As the seconds passed the heat between them only grew; Harry's fingers tangled in her hair, his hand at the small of her back cradling her gently, as if she were the most precious thing he'd ever held in his life, his tongue delving into her mouth, tendrils of desire weaving the length of her spine. She arched into him, hungry for more, for all of him, for all he had to give, accepting his ardor and giving it back in turn. She raised herself up onto her toes, breathing him in, desperate to be closer to him, and he responded, drawing her in, pulling her with him until she was pinned between him and the wall. Were it not for the length of her dress she was certain she would have given into him right then, would have hooked her leg around his hip, would have allowed his hands to wander the length of her thighs, would have let him take her right there in the hall if that was what he wished. As it was, however, her movement was restricted by the fabric flowing down her hips all the way to the floor, and Harry seemed to slowly come back to himself, the fervor of his kisses fading as he brought himself back under control. His hold on her eased slightly, and he brushed his lips against hers one last time before pulling away completely, resting his forehead against her own for a moment while they both struggled to regulate their breathing. Ruth's heart pounded wildly in her chest, crying out for him, but her mind whispered to her in a cautious voice. _Too soon, too soon,_ that small, frightened part of her whispered. This thing between them might have been brewing for the last eight years, but it had only just begun, and she did not want to ruin it by pushing too far too fast.

"I should go," Harry murmured, though his voice betrayed his reticence to leave her.

"You should," Ruth agreed, though she was no more enthusiastic about the prospect than he. She caught his lapels in her hands and pulled him down to her for one last kiss, unable to deny herself the temptation of his full lips so close to her own, before she pushed him gently away. He smiled down at her, her Harry, strong and powerful and kind and utterly, unquestionably _hers._ It was a beautiful sight, his smiling face.

"Good-night, Ruth," he whispered.

"Good-night," she breathed in response. With one last, smoldering look he turned away from her and strode purposefully to the door. He opened it and stepped out into the night, pausing there on her doorstep, turning to her in the darkness.

"Happy birthday, Ruth," he said, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him. For a long time Ruth remained where she was, leaning against the wall in the hallway, her fingertips pressed against her lips, unable to keep the smile from her face.


	4. Chapter 4

"Did you have a nice night, then?" Margot asked pleasantly, reaching out to retrieve the dresses Ruth carried with one hand while with the other she passed over a steaming cup of tea, made just the way Ruth liked it. That was a strange feeling, having someone else to fetch her tea, keep her schedule, field phone calls with some of the highest ranking members of the Security Services. It was, Ruth mused, quite a step up in the world from arranging Harry's calendar and spending her Saturdays buried beneath piles of translations and reports. Margot was a nice enough girl, and even though it was only Ruth's second day on the job, she rather got the sense that Margot was exactly the sort of assistant she needed, organized and enthusiastic but also intuitive enough to know when Ruth needed a moment to herself. It was early on in their acquaintance, but Ruth had always been quite good at reading people. After all, she had warmed to Harry the moment she met him.

"I think it went well," Ruth answered carefully, making her way across the office to her desk. Bookshelves lined the wall behind her ostentatious workstation - a far cry from the cramped quarters she had enjoyed at Thames House - but for the moment they were empty; she considered them, cup of tea in hand, wondering if she ought to bring in books to fill them out, wondering what sort of detritus most Home Office staff kept in their offices. Harry's office had always been rather spartan; there were a few soulless knick-knacks in cubby holes on his aggressively painted back wall, but no photographs, no framed certificates, no pastoral landscapes in gilded frames. He had always been fastidious, almost fussy about the state of his desk; in fact, he grew quite cross if he had more than one file open at a time.

 _Stop thinking about Harry,_ she told herself firmly, for perhaps the tenth time that morning. Try though she might, she could not stop her thoughts wandering back to him, wondering what he was doing, what he was thinking, when she might see him again. Even now, ensconced in her shiny new office, preparing to face another day working hard at her shiny new job, she could not stop herself comparing everything she saw against everything she had known, wondering what Harry would make of it, should he ever see her office. Which, she supposed, he must do at some point. She was the Home Secretary's official liaison to the Security Services; Harry would come here for meetings, with Towers and with her, would walk these halls alongside her. Perhaps, some time in the future, she would meet with Harry in this room, would smile at him softly from behind her desk as he had so often done to her in the past. That was a strange thought.

"The dresses worked out all right?" Margot continued, drawing Ruth's attention away from her former boss and would-be lover, and back to the present.

"They were all lovely, I had a hard time choosing which one to wear." These days Ruth was not much concerned with her clothes; she'd been forced to purchase an entirely new wardrobe, upon her disastrous return to London, and the bleakness that had fallen over her heart in those days had seeped through to every facet of her life, including her clothes. Dark colors, simple silhouettes; she'd purchased it all quickly, using an MI-5 account, and thought no more about it, focused as she was on diverting the disaster of the day. Somewhere along the line her appearance had ceased to matter to her, as she had other, weightier things to worry about. Still, though, it was nice to chat to Margot about the dresses, to pretend, for however brief a time, that she was just a normal woman, interested by normal things.

"But you did choose, didn't you?" Margot asked with a cheeky smile. "Which one did you pick, in the end?"

Ruth had rather a lot of work to be getting on with, and as she gazed at Margot over the rim of her tea cup she wondered how best to politely shoo the girl away. She couldn't very well spend the rest of the morning talking about dresses. In the end she decided to answer the question at hand, and put an end to the conversation as quickly as she could.

"The blue one," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"This one?" Margot asked, proffering the blue dress. Even on the hanger, wrapped in its protective plastic cover, the dress was lovely, and Ruth could not help but smile, just a little, thinking of that dress, and how she'd felt when she wore it, and all the beautiful things that had happened the night before.

"That's the one. Now, really, Margot-"

"It's yours," Margot interrupted her again, stepping over to hang the dress up on the discrete hook behind the door intended for coats.

"I'm sorry?" Ruth asked faintly. She'd had no intention of keeping the dress; she couldn't justify spending thousands of pounds on one dress, no matter how lovely. She couldn't imagine when she'd ever have the chance to wear it again, and she certainly couldn't recall having made arrangements to keep it.

"It's all been taken care of," Margot explained breezily, stepping aside as if to leave.

"Margot-"

"The call came in first thing this morning," the girl continued, her eyes sparkling mischievously across at Ruth, as if they were sharing some delicious secret. "I was told to send the bill for your dress to Thames House."

 _Harry._

Despite herself Ruth smiled, a blush coloring her cheeks. It was such a Harry thing to do, to step in and buy the dress for her after she'd told him she couldn't afford it. Though she was touched, Ruth was also a bit flustered by Margot's involvement in the whole operation, a seed of worry already festering in the back of her mind as she wondered how much the girl knew, what she suspected about Ruth's generous benefactor at MI-5. Harry had shown a shocking lack of prudence, in sending such a request to her PA, and that thought rankled, just a bit; Ruth was only getting started in this job, and she couldn't help but feel that accepting gifts from the Head of Section D would not reflect well on her. And oh, _Christ,_ Margot and Towers's PA were the best of friends; what if word of Harry's gesture made it back to the Home Secretary? Ruth gave an involuntary shudder at that thought; they had only just begun this...whatever it was that they were doing, and at the moment Ruth intended to keep it secret, wanting to keep this one piece of her life to herself, wanting to avoid the mistakes of the past, wanting to do well in her job and to step for once outside the shadow of Harry's influence.

"We don't need to have a conversation about discretion, do we, Margot?" Ruth asked, watching the girl apprehensively. Word of this could not spread; Ruth quite liked Margot, but she'd have the girl shuffled off to a new position in a heartbeat if she could not be trusted.

"Of course not," Margot answered, sounding a little affronted. "I didn't get to be where I am by gossiping about my employer." She gave a little toss of her hair. "No one will hear about this."

"Not even Lillian?" Ruth asked, thinking once again of Towers's chatty PA.

"Especially not Lillian," Margot scoffed. "There's one who never knows when to stop talking."

Ruth filed that information away for later, hoping she'd never have cause to identify a leak in Towers's staff, yet knowing who the first suspect would be.

"Good," Ruth said, somewhat lamely, hoping that would be the end of it. It wasn't, though.

In the doorway Margot was watching her, glancing occasionally out into the corridor as if to ensure that no one was walking by, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet as if she were about to speak, but uncertain as to how her words might be received. Ruth really did need to get to work, but she felt this was more important; this conversation was about more than dresses and discretion, it was also an opportunity for her to establish what sort of relationship she and her PA would have with one another, and she wanted to get it right. As much as she needed to be able to trust Margot, she also needed Margot to trust her, needed to know that they could depend on one another, that they would work well together. If ever Margot had a problem, Ruth needed to be the person the girl came to first, and she needed to know that Margot would keep her secrets, however benign they might be. Fear would not do here, she knew; fear led to resentment. They needed respect, and perhaps genuine fondness, if such a feeling could be cultivated between them.

"What is it?" Ruth prompted her gently. At those words Margot relaxed slightly, perhaps sensing that Ruth was in fact a safe person to talk to and not a hardass who would send her fleeing from the room with bitter words chasing after her. Margot stepped further into the office, leaning towards her conspiratorially.

"I just wanted to say, of all the Section Heads, Sir Harry has always been kindest to me," Margot told her in a soft voice, blushing just a little, as if she knew she was on dangerous ground, and yet was sticking her neck out anyway. "And I think it's very sweet, him buying you that dress for your birthday."

"Don't tell anyone," Ruth murmured a bit ruefully. Yes, her Harry was a sweet man, but it would not improve his standing, should people find out about it. Over the years he had developed a reputation for brutal honesty and stubbornness bordering on the pugnacious, and he would not be pleased, if people learned what a softy he could be.

"No one would believe me anyway," Margot answered with a smile. "Right, the schedule for today," she continued, changing gears so fast it left Ruth's head spinning just a little. "You've got a meeting with Towers at 9:00, and then a meeting with general staff at 10:00. It's a light day, so your only other appointment is a meeting with Sir Harry at 2:00."

This morning had been strange enough already, and it would appear that it was only getting stranger. Ruth had never before required an appointment to see Harry, and to think that he had been forced to contact her PA to make arrangements for them to meet left her feeling rather out of sorts. The balance of power between them had shifted, she realized as she leaned back in her chair. Oh, it had been years since he'd threatened her with a return ticket to GCHQ, since she'd slavishly devoted herself to her work in an effort to please him. In the last days of her tenure at Five they had rather _felt_ like equals, but the stark truth remained that he was her boss. She might buck his authority, might question his decisions, might be the one person he called in the still of the night when the weight of his obligations pressed down upon him, but she had always been his subordinate, forced to abide by his decrees, hiding her affection for him in a bid to protect his standing. Those days were gone, however. He could still confide in her, but there was no shame in it now. Ruth sat up a little straighter, fighting back her smile.

"Where is that meeting?" she asked primly, reaching for her pen and the closest stack of papers. Maybe today would be the day, she thought, when Harry would come to her office. It was an appealing prospect, if somewhat daunting.

"That's the thing," Margot answered. "He didn't tell me where. He said you'd know."

And of course she did. There was only one place Harry would want to go, in the afternoon on a beautiful spring day. She wanted to be cross with him, for revealing the depth of their connection to her PA in such a obvious way, and she wanted to be cross with herself, for smiling like a schoolgirl, but she could not find it in her heart to feel anything but joy, just now. Harry had come to her home, and kissed her lips, and bought her a beautiful dress, and she would seem him that very afternoon, would sit beside him on the bench that had become theirs, watching the river and speaking quietly to one another. She could think of nothing she wanted more.

"Right. Thank you, Margot," she said, trying and failing to sound authoritative.

"You're welcome," Margot answered. Sensing that she had been dismissed the girl turned to leave, but she stopped abruptly there in the doorway, turning back to deliver one last piece of news.

"Before I forget, the first meeting with the Russian delegation will be tomorrow morning at 8:00. They're going on a bit of a sightseeing trip today before the talks start properly."

Ruth nodded her understanding and Margot departed, leaving her to her jumbled thoughts. Towers at 9:00, general staff at 10:00, Harry at 2:00, Russians tomorrow. It would be a balancing act, she knew; it had been years since she'd last tried to maintain her professional duties and a personal relationship, let alone a relationship with a man as married to his job as Harry. Scheduling meals and opportunities to see one another around their busy lives would be difficult, but she was more than ready to try. She'd been given a taste of what they could be together, the comfort of his steady presence in her home, the companionship of a shared meal, the heat of his kiss, and she was hungry for more, ready and willing at last to do what it took to be with Harry, properly. Worries lingered, about the Russians, about Towers, about what he had inferred regarding her relationship with Harry, what it would all mean, but those worries faded somewhat in the light of a beautiful day.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a risky maneuver, Harry knew, ringing Ruth's PA to make arrangements for the dress and their afternoon meeting. This thing between them, while not quite a secret, was not exactly public knowledge, either, and Ruth had always been such a private person, always so reticent to share the details of her life with another. Bringing Margot into the circle on this particular secret had been something of a necessity, however; the girl kept Ruth's schedule, and as such would have been entirely too curious, and entirely too affronted, if she discovered that Ruth had made the arrangements for their meeting on her own. And since it was Margot who was in charge of the dresses, it was Margot he had to call to stop that beautiful dress from going back to the designer, to make sure it went home with Ruth. That dress had fit her so beautifully, and she had seemed so happy wearing it that Harry felt it was simply meant to be hers, and Margot had been keen to help him. If he had to place his trust in any of the Home Office staff, he was glad it was Margot; she had bounced around for the last two years, serving in various administrative positions at Towers's behest, and Harry had spent enough time on the phone with her, watching her slip unobtrusively in and out of meetings, to form an opinion of her. She was discrete and loyal, and the tone of her voice when Harry had rung her to deliver his requests had told him all too plainly that she had already developed a cautious fondness for Ruth. Margot would guard their secrets well, he believed. If she wanted to keep her job, that is, and Harry was certain that she did.

Perhaps he had been presumptuous, in the venue he'd chosen for their meeting and the way he had chosen to relay that information to Ruth. In truth, he was motivated by a desire to remind her just how very much they had between them, the history and the understanding and the easy way they had with one another, sometimes, when they weren't crippled by guilt or fear or doubt. Those moments of compatibility had been in short supply, in the weeks and months since Ros's death, but Harry very much wanted to remind Ruth of them, wanted to remind her that they were built on so much more than grief, that they could overcome the circumstances that had very nearly torn them asunder. And he had wanted to tease her, just a little, the way he had done in the days before Cotterdam, when they were flirting around the idea of flirting. There had been a gentle sort of give and take between them, once, and he wanted her to know that they were not too broken to find that comfort with one another again. They could do it, he told himself as he sat down on the bench, checking his watch and noting that Ruth was due to join him in a matter of minutes. They actually _had_ done it, briefly, the night before, during a gentle chat about her little cat. _Bless that cat,_ he thought fondly. The creature had provided an ice-breaker of sorts, had become a vehicle for their discussion, had made this thing between them a little less fraught, a little easier to bear. He resolved to find some way to deliver a treat to Felicity, as a show of gratitude, at the earliest possible moment.

He was humming softly to himself, thinking of Ruth's cat, and the softness of Ruth's skin beneath his hands, when she came walking up to him, the color high in her cheeks and uncertainty shining in the depths of her glorious eyes. Harry loved those eyes, truly he did; they were the first thing he noticed about her, the moment they met all those many years before, and they had stayed with him ever since. Even when she was apart from him, even during the long, miserable years of her exile, those eyes had lingered somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, watching him, consuming him. One glance at them was always sufficient to tell him exactly what she was thinking, what she was feeling, and when he gazed upon them now, he read her mood quite clearly. She was hopeful, as was he, happy to see him once again, but she was cautious, too, unsure of where they stood with one another, what was expected now that they'd finally broken through the last of their defenses, admitted their love for one another and snogged in her front hall like over-enthusiastic teenagers. It would be up to him, he knew, to reassure her. Luckily for them both, he had rather a lot of practice at that.

"Hello," he said warmly, as she took a seat beside him. Black dress, grey cardigan, tall black boots, subtly sparkling silver necklace; she was dressed in what he had come to think of as her uniform, dark colors, soft fabrics, carefully hiding her shape from view. There was something calculated in that modesty, he knew; Ruth had learned, long ago, that it was safer not to stand out, and she dressed accordingly, in a manner befitting a spook. Harry didn't mind, so very much. He had seen enough of her, over the years, and last night in particular, to know that she was one of the loveliest women he had ever known. She had no need of provocative clothing, to catch and maintain his interest; she owned him, wholly and completely, and had done for quite some time now.

"Hello," she answered, not quite catching his eye as she delicately folded her legs and came to a rest, the momentum that had carried her to his side deserting her all at once. They sat for a time in a companionable silence, staring out at the river as they had so often done in the past. This was one of his favorite places to come and watch his city bustling around him. The ebb and flow of the river, the steady stream of pedestrians, the sights and the smells of his London surrounded them here, and allowed them an all-too rare moment of anonymity, a chance to breathe, to simply be. Sitting on this bench they were not their professional selves, those dark, weary souls with their intimidating job titles and weighty responsibilities. They were just a man and a woman, sitting on a bench on a fine spring afternoon, enjoying the day and one another's company. Well, that wasn't true, strictly speaking; Harry did have business to discuss with her. But they could pretend, for a moment. They were rather good at that.

"It's a beautiful day," Ruth said somewhat uncomfortably, as the silence stretched on too long. Harry berated himself silently for not putting her at her ease sooner, and he immediately stepped in to save them both from the horror of small talk.

"I have to confess," he said, "this isn't purely a social call. We need to talk about raising the threat level."

Beside him Ruth shifted uneasily, her eyes focused intently on her lap where her fingers were busy worrying with the edge of her cardigan. Though Harry longed to reach out and still those busy fingers with the touch of his hand, to offer her assurance, he held himself back, uncertain as to what exactly was bothering Ruth about their conversation, uncertain as to what liberties he would be allowed to take, now. They had not really spoken about this, this understanding between them, what it would mean, what they would expect. On one hand, Harry really did not want to talk about it at all; he wanted them to simply fall together, to erase the pain of recent months with dinner, and with drinks, and a few more kisses. On the other, he knew his Ruth, knew her better than he knew any other living soul, and he knew she would not be satisfied with some nameless, amorphous state of affairs. She would want to categorize, to analyze, and he wanted to do whatever was necessary, in order to make her happy.

"That's not really my purview, Harry," she pointed out, rightly so. Ruth wasn't involved in that decision, true enough, but she did need to know what was afoot.

"No," he agreed, trying to keep his tone gentle and light. "The recommendation has already been sent to the DG. But Towers needs to be informed, and I have been told to take all my information to you first."

She startled a bit at that, raising her face to gaze at him, an unspoken question glimmering in her eyes. "He did make you his Security Services liaison, Ruth."

"He's never needed one before," she said, eyes narrowing shrewdly. She was a clever one, his Ruth, Harry thought proudly. Nothing ever got by her. "You've always met with him directly, in the past."

"Times are changing," Harry sighed, leaning back against the bench, fighting the wave of paranoia that had been lapping around the edges of his mind since the day he was suspended in the wake of Albany. "The Home Secretary's position is a political one, and he used up every bit of capital he had, every favor, to save me from being strung up by my toes at Traitors' Gate. He's always been supportive of my work, but I suspect he's feeling a bit vulnerable, just now. He'll want to distance himself from culpability, where he can."

"And set me up as a scapegoat, should you implode?" Ruth observed wryly.

Harry could do no more than nod. It was only a supposition, but he could think of no other reason for the sudden cold breeze drifting towards him from the direction of the Home Office. That rankled, that knowledge that he was being shut out, but if he was to be foisted off on one of Towers's lackeys, he could think of no punishment more agreeable than spending more time with Ruth.

"You do know how to make friends, don't you, Harry?" she asked him softly. Though her tone was far from playful, it was an attempt, he knew, at lightening the mood, and he was grateful to her for it.

"That's me," he agreed. "Many people have complimented my congeniality."

Beside him Ruth made a derisive sound that did not quite rise to the level of a chuckle, but came close enough to bolster his confidence. They would be all right. They would make this work.

"I suppose it doesn't help, the Russians coming to town," she observed after a long moment during which Harry's fingers itched to reach out to her.

Harry grunted. _Damn the Russians,_ he thought glumly. Keenly aware of the skittish nature of his companion, however, he did not voice his displeasure, choosing instead to say only, "I'll behave myself. At least the Gavricks are staying home." _May they rot,_ he added silently.

"It's no secret, how you feel about the Russians. How we both feel about them," she added this last in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper, her momentary good cheer fading fast. There was a barely perceptible darkening of her eyes that left Harry feeling a bit perturbed. He knew good and well what cause he had to hold a grudge against the Russians, but he could not for the life of him think of a reason for Ruth to have joined her grievance to his. He opened his mouth to ask her, but she beat him to the punch, his clever, insightful Ruth.

"I haven't forgotten what happened with Doctor Kirby," she murmured.

 _Kirby._ Now there was a man Harry had not thought about for some months, he mused as he watched his companion in the stillness following her pronouncement. That operation had been a cock-up, from start to finish, and the FSB agent the Russians had foisted off on him had let loose a trail of chaos that had turned relations between Moscow and London quite frosty indeed. In fact, Harry realized with a start, that might well have been the very thing that set these wheels in motion, that made the higher-ups start talking about international cooperation, rather than cutting one another off at the knees. It was a troubling thought.

"I find it hard to trust them, myself," he conceded. "After everything."

There was a moment of silence during which Ruth watched him uneasily, her eyes studying his face as if trying to gauge his mood, trying to determine his possible reaction to her next words. Drawing on some heretofore undiscovered reserve of boldness, she spoke, and shocked him to his core.

"We've never really talked about it, have we, Harry?" she asked him gently. "What they did to you, I mean. Did to us. Connie James and Viktor Sarkissian."

The sound of those names never failed to chill him, though he only ever heard them echoed in the vault of his own mind, these days. No one on the grid now knew about either of them, the chaos they had wrought, the pain, the betrayal, the grief. And Ruth was right, they _hadn't_ talked about it, hadn't talked about the complicated machinations that had led to the destruction of her family and very nearly spelled the end of any future they could ever hope to build together. Harry still saw the man's face sometimes, in his dreams, that man with the dark eyes who had loved his Ruth, and died for it, had been killed while Harry sat by, powerless to stop it and unwilling to try. He hadn't put it all together before, really, had always laid the blame for those crimes on the individuals, but his Ruth had seen the link at once, and portioned blame accordingly. She blamed the Russians; Harry blamed himself, for placing his trust in the wrong hands.

"That's in the past now," he said, because he felt he had to say _something_ and yet did not want to reveal how much her words troubled him. "There's no one to blame for what Connie did but the woman herself. She chose to work for the other side, chose to betray everyone she knew. And as for Sarkissian, he was only thinking about his own wallet, his actions weren't authorized by Moscow."

This time Ruth did laugh, a sharp, mirthless sound. "Harry-"

"I didn't ask you here to talk about that, Ruth," he cut her off, a bit more abruptly than he intended. "What I mean to say," he corrected himself quickly, "is that you're right, and we should talk about it -" _Christ,_ but he didn't want to talk about the events that had led to her blood-soaked return from exile - "but not here, not now. Soon, though. Whenever you want. Just not now."

Silence returned, lingering and uncertain. The sunshine seemed a little paler, in light of their conversation. He had been so hopeful, when she arrived, hopeful that they might have a gentle conversation, might make plans to see on another again, that he might wheedle another kiss from her before work called her back across the river. They were running out of time, he knew; she was a busy woman, this love of his, and he was a busy man. There was only so much time they could steal for themselves, in the midst of a working day, and he did not want to waste it talking about Russians and death and betrayal.

"Is that all you wanted to talk about, then?" she asked. The doubt was back, in those bright blue eyes. They were reflecting the color of the sky, today, not grey or green but sheer, captivating blue, wide and brilliant and utterly enchanting. "Just the threat level?"

There was a great deal more than that he wanted to discuss with her, at present. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, wanted to explain his anger, wanted to - however much it might hurt - talk to her about his proposal, and how they had gone from _we could never be more together_ to kissing one another feverishly in her flat late at night. He wanted to hold her, to touch her, to listen to her chatter on about whatever she pleased, so long as she spoke in that warm, honey-rich voice that filled his heart full to bursting with love of her. But now was not the time for that, he knew; she had reminded him of his professional purpose, in asking her here, and so he sought to complete that goal before moving on to other, more attractive ambitions.

"We need to raise it to substantial. We're monitoring a Lebanese cell here in London. They have been quiet, up until now, but they're starting to make moves, and we have reason to suspect they're compiling components to build an explosive of some sort. Maybe a dirty bomb, maybe not, but we need a little extra muscle on this."

Ruth nodded. "Have Callum send me a report," she said. "I'll review, and advise the HS of the pertinent details."

In that moment Harry was so proud of her that he could not stop himself from smiling softly at her, could not keep his hand from reaching out and grasping her own, giving her a little squeeze. Her cheeks reddened at the contact, but to her credit she did not pull away.

"I hope Towers knows how lucky he is, to have you on board," Harry told her earnestly. "You were made for this, Ruth. Authority suits you."

Her blush deepend at his praise, but no words escaped her. Perhaps she could think of nothing to say, in response to such a strange sort of compliment. _Sod it,_ Harry thought; of course they were strange. Another man might have told his lover how beautiful she was, how lovely, how bright, but he had told her - perhaps in not so many words, but the intent was the same - how much he appreciated her tenacity, her ambition, her strength. He had always known that she was meant for more than just analyzing intel in a dark corner of the Grid; she belonged in the thick of things, making decisions, giving orders. Which, he realized belatedly, she had just done to him. Ruth had just given him an order. _How about that?_ He thought faintly.

"It will take some getting used to," she said at last, "but I am appreciating the challenge."

Of course she was, his brilliant Ruth. She had always loved a challenge. She had, after all, fallen in love with him, and Harry was self-aware enough to admit that he was the most challenging person he had ever met. Aside from Ruth.

"I suppose you're due back soon?" he asked, fighting the urge to check his watch. They had only carved out a few minutes for one another; Harry was meant to be back on the Grid, berating his staff and saving the world, and Ruth no doubt had a whole host of things to attend to at the Home Office.

She nodded, but she made no move to get up, to extricate herself from his grip. In fact her eyes flickered down, to where their hands rested, fingers intertwined, on her lap. Her skin was warm, pressed against his own, her dress was soft beneath his hand, her thigh infinitely softer, and for a moment Harry cursed himself, for having chosen such a public spot for their meeting. He wanted, very much, to feel her, all of her, cradled against him, to lose himself in that warmth, that softness. _Soon,_ he cautioned his over-eager heart. He had almost lost her before, by demanding too much, and he would be prudent, now, in the hopes that he would not lose her again.

"I don't suppose you're available this evening?" he added carefully. He couched it as a question, a suggestion rather than a demand. Only the night before she had told him that she loved him, and much as he was willing to marry her on the spot, he knew that Ruth would need time, to adjust to the idea of them, and he did not want her to think he was expecting to spend his every waking moment with her. He wanted, very much, for her to feel safe with him, comfortable with him, for her to _want_ to be in his company, and so, for both their sakes, he was determined not to push his luck.

"As it happens," she answered, smiling at him bashfully, "I think I am. What did you have in mind?"

He couldn't stop himself; he was leaning towards her before he realized it, his eyes focused intently on her face, drunk on her proximity. "Dinner?" he suggested, in a voice that sounded low and rough to his own ears.

"I will need to eat," she conceded. That faint blush was still there, lingering on her cheeks, but her tone was playful, and Harry's heart sang in his chest.

"Out?" he asked, so close to her now that he could smell the soft, lingering scent of her perfume.

She shook her head, scrunching up her nose distastefully. It was a gesture he had not seen from her in quite some time, so reminiscent of the girl she had been, before, and the sight of it now, the knowledge that she felt comfortable enough with him to let that fragile piece of herself shine through, nearly shattered what little remained of his self-restraint. They may have been sitting together in public, but he wanted nothing more than to kiss her, and he was fast running out of reasons not to.

"I have been known to cook," he said before he could stop himself.

That startled her, a bit, the suggestion that she could come round to his, but she did not let her shock show for long. She smiled at him, from inches away, and nodded. "That would be nice," she said decisively.

Harry thought it would be much more than _nice_ , but he decided to be gracious in victory, and so did not speak that thought aloud. Instead he took a deep breath, steeled himself for any potential fallout, and closed the space between them, kissing her gently. It was hardly more than a brush of lips on lips, but she sighed, and he smiled, and went back for seconds, pressing her a bit more ardently before her hands rose up, flattening against his chest as she allowed him the liberty to taste her, just for an instant. And then those hands, those soft, delicate hands, pushed him back, just a bit, just far enough to break the connection of their mouths.

Had she not been smiling at him, Harry would have been terrified, to have her pull away thus. As it was, her cheeks were flushed pink, her breathing was heavy, and her eyes were sparkling at him happily, and the sight of her, soft and cautiously jubilant, allayed his fears.

"Not here," she murmured by way of explanation.

"Of course," he answered sheepishly. They were surrounded by people, here, and a fair few CCTV cameras. She was right; they could ill afford being caught out mid-snog, so close to both of their offices.

"Later, though," she assured him, smoothing his shirt front with trembling fingertips before rising to her feet.

"Ring me, when you're done with work," he said, remaining on the bench, content for now just to watch her, just to bask in the radiance of yet another successful interaction with Ruth. It had been quite some time, since he'd got things right with her, and he wanted to enjoy it a bit longer.

"I will," she answered. For a moment she prevaricated, looking for all the world as if she wanted to swoop down and kiss him again, but then she pulled herself together, and gave him a little smile. "I'll see you later, Harry," she whispered, and then she was gone, hurrying away from him.


	6. Chapter 6

Ruth stood surveying her wardrobe, bottom lip caught between her teeth, lost in contemplation of Harry and everything that had transpired between them in the last twenty-four hours. It felt rather like a dream, the dancing, the quiet meal, the kissing, the fervent declaration of feelings, and she couldn't shake the sense that it must all surely come to an end, that she must surely wake and find herself cold and lonely in her bed as ever. There was just so _much_ between them, so much grief, so much guilt, so much doubt; Harry seemed determined to put it behind them, seemed confident in their ability to forge together and build a new life from the shattered pieces, but Ruth did not share his certainty. He had been so _angry_ with her, when they spoke there in the doorway to the ballroom, when he cradled her in his arms and spun her around the dancefloor and watched her with accusing eyes, betrayal and hurt radiating off him in waves. How could he have forgiven her so quickly, this man who was so well known for holding grudges, for seeking vengeance? How could he trust her, after everything?

In a way Ruth thought she might already have the answer to that question. Over the many long years of their acquaintance, Harry had never made a secret of his feelings for her. That he loved her was the one constant in her ever-shifting existence, acknowledged once or twice between them, in moments of despair. _If you have any feelings at all, if you have any feelings for me;_ she heard those words echoing in her mind, her own terrified voice begging him, pleading with him, reminding him that he loved her and hoping against hope that that love might be enough to stave off disaster. It wasn't, of course; Harry loved her, but George had been doomed all the same. Perhaps it had been cruel, to speak those words to him in that moment, but Ruth had been so desperate, so terrified that the blood of an innocent man might stain her hands, that she had spoken in haste. She had often dreamed of how she and Harry might return to one another, how they might approach the cautious affection that bound them, and she had never intended to do it in such a way. But she had, and in so doing, she had broken his heart. She knew it now, as she had known it then, sitting with her hands bound and watching the light fade from his eyes as hurt overtook him. He was a good spook, her Harry, but he could not hide himself from her.

It had happened again, after Albany. _It was unfair of you to love me,_ she'd told him, consumed by guilt and grief, her tongue loosed by the last of the anesthetic dripping through her veins, thinking how it was not right, was not just, that she should live while millions might have died, should the weapon be released. She had not known, in that moment, that Albany posed no threat, and fear had shattered her world. Harry had saved her life, because he loved her, and they both knew it. Everyone knew it. Everyone knew that Harry loved Ruth, but as she stood deep in thought, preparing herself to meet him again, she realized that it was not until that night on the balcony at the Russian Embassy that she had acknowledged that she loved him in return. Oh, she had tried, over the years, to convey it to him quietly, in the gentle touch of her hand, in the soft reassurance she offered him without hesitation, but she had never _told_ him. Perhaps that was why he had forgiven her so readily, because she had at last confessed, and whatever doubts remained to him had fled in the face of her declaration. He had been confident, and gentle with her in their meetings since, had been more assured of his standing and his place in her life than he had been since the night he'd taken her to dinner, and kissed her tenderly on her doorstep. All he'd ever needed was that indication from her, and he had bulled forward with all the tenacity that he possessed, clearly intent on making a life for them together.

And, much as it terrified her, Ruth wanted that as well, wanted them to forgive and forget and _live,_ to finally breathe freely in one another's company. This night they planned to spend together, and the one that had come before it, was the inevitable culmination of all the time they'd spent together, learning one another's secrets, sharing one another's burdens. It was _right,_ she told herself as she rummaged around for something to wear, that they each make a place for one another in their lives. They no longer had the Grid, to bind them one to the other, and so they would have to make a place where they could be together; in the past they had stolen moments in Harry's office, on the roof of Thames House, standing over the ancient kettle in the little kitchenette just off the Grid, but now they would claim those moments of peace at home, where they could relax, and not have to worry about being discovered. It was a change, but a welcome one, she hoped.

Sitting together over plates of pasta in her kitchen wasn't so different, really, from sitting together over plates of Chinese takeaway in the meeting room, except that they could speak without an audience. He was still Harry, with his dry sense of humor and his ironclad sense of duty. They would still talk about work, no doubt, but they would not have to restrain their conversation solely to terrorism and threat levels. They could talk about whatever they fancied, as they had done in the old days, lingering over cups of tea on the Grid of an evening and chatting quietly about opera. It was that Harry she had fallen in love with, the one who had shared the hidden pieces of himself with her, and she treasured every secret she knew about him now. He was hers, now, as she was his, and they would find a way.

Her thoughts drifted back to their meeting that afternoon; she had been a bit anxious, when she sat down beside him, worried about the direction their conversation might take. She was in no way prepared to share some great emotional revelation with him there on that bench, but to his credit he had not pushed her, had only chatted to her calmly about work, and asked her to dinner. He had only touched her briefly, but he had done it with confidence, sure now of how his advances would be received, and she had reciprocated with all the hunger that burned within her heart. It was strange to think that after all this time, all the years of denial and bitter words and cold distance they were finally allowed to take these liberties, to see one another when and where they pleased. It was strange, but somehow _right_ , too; there was no one in the world who knew her as Harry did, who knew her history, her expressions, her dreams and her fears. There was no one else who had ever kissed her the way he did, who had ever meant as much to her as he did. And now, finally, they were going to do this, properly, were going to eat and kiss and slowly build a future together.

If she were being honest, Ruth would have to admit she wanted a great deal more than just kisses from Harry. She'd spent eight years watching him, longing for him; she knew that he was no longer the lean, lithe man he'd been in his youth, knew that his face was lined and his hair was thinning and that he was not perhaps the fittest man she'd ever known, but he had a way of looking at her that set her insides to churning, that set her ablaze with need of him. That deep, husky voice, the warmth of his eyes, the strength of his hands; she had wondered so often what it might feel like, to have those hands tracing circles against her skin, and having had just a taste of what they could be together, she was hungry for more. She wanted him, all of him, and if the way he'd kissed her as they sat together on the bench in the afternoon sunlight was any indication, he wanted her as well.

 _Maybe tonight,_ she thought, carefully choosing her bra before pulling on her favorite navy dress. Though she was a consummate planner, prone to analyzing every detail, she had been long enough in the world, and was familiar enough with the wants of her own body, to know that this was not something that could - or should - be planned. She would go to Harry's, and they would sit comfortably together, talking of books and her slowly forming suspicions of the Russians, and they would fall together or not as they chose, as it suited them. It wasn't the ideal moment for a tryst with Harry, she knew; they were meeting with the Russians first thing in the morning, and would not have the time to spend in bed at their leisure as they might have wished, but then she and Harry had never had particularly good timing. She smiled ruefully to herself, carefully fastening her necklace, recognizing even as that expression crossed her features how far she'd come, that she could smile about it now. In the days before Cotterdam they had danced around one another, and when finally they reached a point where they might be willing to act upon their feelings, they were cruelly snatched away from one another. When she finally felt bold enough to ask Harry for a drink after her return from Cyprus, they had been intercepted by disaster. Harry's proposal, driven as it was by grief and fear, had come at a moment when she herself was too busy thinking about dead friends and the inevitable bloody end that awaited them to even consider it.

 _This is our time now,_ she told herself firmly as she tugged on her boots. They would not allow calamity to drive them apart again. As she made her way out into the night, venturing to Harry's house, Ruth was smiling.

* * *

When she arrived Harry promptly swung open the door to greet her; he wasn't quite smiling, but then he did not always need to. His eyes had a way of softening, when they turned her way, and that expression on his face was worth more to her than any smile, because she had only ever seen it directed at her. This was her Harry, the one she had come to know over the years, the one only she was privy to. They had fought and bled for this closeness, this silent understanding; they could read one another with a single glance, and they had honed that skill through necessity, relying on one another when all else failed. This was Harry without his tie and jacket, his shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the throat, his feet bare upon the floor, and no one got to see this side of him but her.

"Come in," he murmured, clearly delighted to finally be allowed to speak those words to her at last, and Ruth did as she was bid, slipping past him and into his foyer. For a moment she gazed around her, taking in the space, the tasteful art upon the walls, the glimpse of the sitting room - and the fine piano inside - afforded her, but then Harry was beside her again, and her gaze found its way unerringly to his face. It was not the most handsome face, but it was the face she loved best in all the world. _Be brave,_ her heart whispered, and so she raised herself up onto her toes, and softly kissed his grizzled cheek.

"Hello," she breathed as she pulled back from him. Harry's eyes were sparkling at her delightedly, and for a moment he seemed quite overcome, and she fancied that he must have felt rather as she did, as if they were caught in the most beautiful dream, a dream neither of them wanted to wake from.

"Something smells good," she said, blushing at her own boldness and the pleasure even that simple contact had brought them both.

"I hope it meets expectations," Harry said, reaching out to place his hand at the small of her back and guide her down the hall into the kitchen. Ruth's body warmed all over at his touch; some small piece of her wanted to shy away, frightened and unsure, but the longing of her heart won out. They were moving forward, she and Harry, and Ruth was determined not to let her fear be a stumbling block any longer. She had tasted the passion of his kiss, and she could not find it in herself to deny them both the simple joy of being together at last.

There was no name for this, for what they were to one another, she thought as Harry guided her to a seat at his table, pouring them each a glass of wine. They were comfortable together, but had not yet made any sort of verbal commitment, had not fallen into bed or made any sort of plan. They simply _were_ , two people who knew one another well, who wanted one another fiercely, who were so much more than _friends,_ and yet not lovers. Change was in the air, crackling between them, but for now they were content to simply be, to let the chips fall as they may. That had never been Ruth's preferred method of operation, in the past, but this was different, and she knew it. They were a fragile, delicate thing, wary and broken, and they would treat one another gently, knowing how precious a gift their love was, determined not to waste the opportunity they had been granted.

"It's not much," Harry said as he placed a glass of wine in front of her and then turned away to fetch her a plate. "I was later at the office than I intended, and didn't have nearly enough time."

"I'm sure it's wonderful," Ruth responded, trying to convey to him how little she cared about food, in this moment. He could have presented her with burned toast and she would have declared it the finest meal she had ever eaten, so long as Harry was sitting across from her.

For his part Harry seemed equally enchanted with their change in circumstance; he plated their food and set it upon the table before taking up his seat, and when he reached for his wine there was a soft, almost playful expression upon his face.

"How was your day, then?" he asked with the air of a man who had been waiting rather a long time to ask her that question, to indulge in something so normal and familiar.

"Busy," she answered truthfully. "Towers created a brand new position for me, and it will take some time, to figure out how it's all going to work. I met with staff today, and I'm going to Vauxhall tomorrow after we meet with the Russians."

Ruth was quite eager to make her way to Six; she hadn't spent much time working with them, in the past, and she was interested to see how that relationship would develop, how they would respond to her. Everyone at Five already knew her - or knew _of_ her - and they treated her as one of their own. She couldn't be sure what her counterparts at Six knew of her history, if indeed they knew anything at all, or how that information might inform their opinion of her. But liaising with Six was just as important to her work as conferring with Harry, and she was determined to excel at it.

"Bloody Russians," Harry grumbled, tucking into his meal. Ruth smiled at him softly and did the same. This was somehow natural, this merging of the two parts of their lives. They could discuss the Russians over glasses of wine and Harry's rather fine cooking, and then perhaps they could make their way into the sitting room, and fall ever closer together in want and need and love, and they would be all right. After everything, they were finally all right. For the first time in a very long time, Ruth Evershed was a happy woman.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a strange and wonderful thing, to have Ruth in his home after all this time. He had imagined it, more than once, had tortured himself with thinking what it might be like, to have her here with him, drinking his wine, smiling at him softly across the table. He had given up all hope, really, of ever finding this sort of comfort with her, after his botched proposal and her abrupt departure from the Section, but in just a few seconds his entire outlook had changed, as her face had crumpled and she had brokenly revealed the depth of her regard for him. It was no mystery, why they had been apart for so long, why they had never before found a place for themselves; Harry knew better than anyone all the twistings and turnings of the road that had brought them to this point. But she was here, now, had given voice to her quiet love of him, had not retreated when he kissed her, had not balked at his dinner invitation, and now she was sitting at his table, her boots long since discarded and a look of gentle wonder upon her face, as if she too were thinking how marvelous it was, to finally be with one another at last, no longer worried about what others might say, no longer concerned with anything save the desperate desires of their own hearts.

It was easy to be with her like this, in the still and quiet of his house in the evening, but then they were very old friends. They had formed their professional relationship first, within the confines of the Grid, but they had become friends rather quickly, after that. They confided in one another, each of them trapped on the Grid while the field agents ran amok, forced to sit and wait and then clean up, after. Those experiences had shaped them, had shown him the nature of Ruth as a person, had led to a strange sort of camaraderie that he had rarely enjoyed with an analyst. Though she had her moments of awkward uncertainty, Ruth had been so _different_ from the other desk officers, possessed of a level of compassion, of empathy, that set her apart, that when coupled with her staggering intellect and startling blue eyes had made her impossible to ignore. She was too young for him, too good for him, and he fallen for her regardless, finding himself completely and utterly in her thrall. That she felt much the same about him was a relief, though he supposed there was no other explanation, really, for why she had chosen to remain by his side, through it all.

"Harry?" she said softly, and he jerked back to attention, suddenly aware that he had got lost in his memories, lulled into near insensibility by the lilting sound of her voice. He cleared his throat and took a sip of wine, catching her eye and giving her a look that encouraged her to continue, and perhaps repeat her last statement so that he could catch up with their conversation. And though she knew him well enough to recognize that she'd lost his attention and regained it just as quickly, she did not seem to fault him for it.

"I just wanted to say thank you, Harry, for this evening. For inviting me round, for cooking," she gestured to the table between them, indicating their empty plates and half empty wine glasses. "It's lovely."

"I ought to be thanking you," Harry told her warmly, thinking how lucky he was to have this woman here with him, beautiful and fascinating and contradictory as she was.

Rather suddenly, it seemed to Harry that dark clouds had gathered in his companion's eyes, that the gentleness that had been present in her gaze faded somewhat behind a veil of grief.

"I think we both know, if you'd had your way I would have been here years ago," she told him sadly, her focus drifting down to where her hands were clenched together in her lap.

"Ruth-" he started to protest, started to tell her that now was not the time to dwell upon the sins of the past, but then she was talking again, and he was silenced by the tone of her voice, by her quiet pain.

"Don't you think we should talk about it, Harry?" she asked him, though her expression had grown almost wretched, speaking all too plainly of her own hesitance on the matter. "About…" she lost her voice, gave her head a little shake, tried again. "About what happened that day, at Ros's funeral? And after, when I left."

Harry sighed, feeling his own joy fading somewhat. Yes, he supposed, they ought to talk about it, ought to air their grievances now, offer one another forgiveness, and strengthen the bond between them in the process. It seemed the mature thing to do, and Harry was not foolish enough to believe that they could both move on without addressing the year of calamity that had followed the loss of his Section Chief. Still, though, Harry was a man who understood all too well the nature of secrets, and the fickle, ever-changing beast that was the human heart. Whatever they endured in the past, they were both here now, happy to be with one another, and to him that mattered far more than any explanation Ruth might have to offer, regarding her rejection of his proposal and her decision to leave the team.

"We can if you want to, Ruth," he said finally. He had decided, standing on that balcony with her beneath a canopy of stars, that he would do whatever it took to make her happy, to make her his, and if she wanted to talk, then by God they would talk.

"Why did you do it, Harry?" she asked softly, her eyes watching him, uncertain and scared and longing, it seemed, though he knew not for what. "Why did you ask me...that? Then?"

It was difficult for her to broach this subject, he knew, difficult for her to bring their conversation back from the Russians and opera and books to the tangled mess that was their intertwined personal lives, but she had done it, and he felt that if she were willing to take that risk, to raise that question in the peace of this moment, the least he could do was tell her the truth. The words would not come, however. How could he tell her that he had been lost, grasping at straws, desperate for some tether to ground him to reality after the violent fate that had met one of his best and brightest? How could he tell her that having been so close to the explosion on the day Ros lost her life had shaken him to the core, had reminded him of his own mortality, and left him frantic, almost, with the need to embrace his life to the fullest, to make the best of what he had while his heart was still beating? He was not the sort of man who made such declarations, even to her. But she had been brave, the night before, in telling him that she loved him despite the anger they both knew he was feeling, and he felt he owed it to her, to be brave in turn.

"I asked because I wanted to, Ruth," he told her, his eyes searching her face as her own dropped away from him once more, the tension building between them. He carried on, hoping that he could somehow salvage what had so far been a beautiful evening. "I wanted this, you and I together, but there never seemed to be any bloody _time._ We were always rushing, always working. And then I lost Ros, and I realized that if we didn't make the time ourselves, it might never come. Perhaps it was a bit...rash, but I couldn't bear the thought of you slipping away. Not again."

"Oh, Harry," she said sadly, hiding her expression behind her wine glass. She had asked her question, but Harry had one of his own. She had tried to answer it in the past, had offered him her explanations, but none of it had ever made much sense to him, and he was certain that there must be something more to it than she had ever revealed to him. It was Ruth who had broached the subject, and she could hardly reproach him, for pursuing it further.

"Why did you say no, Ruth?" he asked. "If you...love me, as you say you do, why did you say no?"

Surprise and trepidation danced across her face; no doubt she was experiencing the same sort of internal battle Harry himself was fighting, between the desire for honesty and the desire for self-preservation. He had thrown himself into this conversation with everything he had, had laid himself bare before her, and he could only hope that she would meet him in the middle.

"It was too much, Harry," she said after a moment of silence so sharp and so tense that he had felt it like a razor upon his skin. "I was sitting in that church, thinking of everyone we'd lost, all the brave souls taken from us too soon, the families left to mourn them, thinking how alone Ros was in the world. I was miserable, Harry, but you were beside me, and I remember asking myself how many funerals we had sat through together, you and I. It was a horrible moment, and when you asked me I was...I was confused, Harry. We hadn't been out together in years, I'd never even set foot inside your house, and here you were, asking me to marry you, to uproot my entire life, and it frightened me, because I couldn't understand it."

Her words came back to him, not the words she'd spoken there in the churchyard but the diatribe she'd delivered on the roof of Thames House, about how they could never be some ordinary couple living in a house in Suffolk. He had been confused himself, at the time, wondering how she'd managed to mistake him so completely, but he felt he could understand it now. Ruth needed to a plan, needed to know where she was going, and he had offered no such assurances, and in their absence she had leapt to all the wrong conclusions. And in his grief he had not pursued her, had not explained himself, and they had fallen apart.

On impulse he reached out and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers and watching the play of emotions across her face. "It wasn't the right moment," he conceded, "and I should have told you that I didn't want a house in Suffolk, that all I ever wanted was you. We were both hurting, then. We'll just have to be more direct with one another, in the future."

Her gaze flickered from his face to their hands and back again, and as he watched, it seemed to him that he could see her accepting it, could see her analyzing both their reactions and deciding that it was not enough to derail them, that they could move past this, together. Harry still wanted that for them, wanted her to be his wife, wanted to come home to her at the end of a long day, but he would not ask her again until he was certain of her response. He watched the tension leave her, watched her shoulders sag slightly in silent capitulation, and then she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I understand why you left the Section, as well," he told her softly, remembering her heated words the night before. "Towers made you a good offer, and this is a good opportunity for you. You're a first-rate analyst, Ruth, but you could be so much more."

"You've always thought too highly of me," she demurred, her cheeks blushing at his words.

"You proved yourself to me long ago," he insisted. "Now, is that all you wanted to talk about?"

She squeezed his hand again and then withdrew, raising her glass to finish the last of her wine. "I think that's enough navel-gazing for one night," she allowed. "Really, Harry, this has been lovely."

He wanted to tell her again how he loved her, wanted to push his chair back from the table and take her in his arms and lose himself to the passion he felt for her, this woman who was equal parts sunlight and shadows, hope and grief, who had come to be the very center of his world, but he hesitated, unsure just how far she would allow things to go between them now. It would take time, he knew, but there was something in her gaze, a yearning that had sprung up in the depths of her radiant eyes, that told him that perhaps he would not have to wait as long as he feared.

"Since you took the trouble to cook," she said, rising smoothly from her chair, "at least let me handle the clean up."

Walking smoothly round the table she gathered her plate and then reached for his own, but Harry stopped her, reaching out and catching her wrist, marveling at how small, how finely-made it was, how delicate she seemed in comparison to his own broad hands. "You don't have to do that, Ruth," he murmured, feeling the racing of her pulse beneath his fingertips.

To his surprise, and his delight, Ruth leaned forward and kissed his temple gently. "Let me look after you, Harry," she answered, and he was so pleased by her touch that he released her and allowed her to do as she wished. He had no intention of sitting idly by while she tidied up, however; he gathered their wine glasses and started to make his way over to the sink, but the sight of her stopped him in his tracks.

She was standing by the sink, bathed in the gentle light filtering in from the the window above it, her hands busy with the dishes, a tendril of long, dark hair falling against the slender column of her neck in stark contrast to the smooth paleness of her skin. The navy dress she wore clung to her frame, highlighted the curve of her hip, the gentle swell of her ass, the lines and planes of her body soft and supple in the moonlight, calling out to him. From across the room he could hear her humming softly, the notes of the song smooth and warm, though he could not place the tune. It was enchanting; _she_ was enchanting, and nothing else made sense in that moment but that he should go to her, and wrap her in his arms.

And so he did, discarding the glasses once more on the tabletop before sidling up behind her, fitting his body against her back, his hands snaking round her waist at once. Though she tensed, initially, no doubt surprised by the contact, she did not try to shrug him off, and when he gave into his own desires and placed his lips against her neck she sighed in bliss, leaning her head back against his shoulder and allowing him access to more of her soft skin.

* * *

The moment his lips touched her neck, Ruth felt herself dangerously close to losing all control. Her hands were wet, still half-emerged in the soapy water she had drawn to wash their dishes, or else she would have reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair, held him closer to her still. She could not bring herself to move, not even to reach for a towel to dry her hands, not when Harry's mouth was doing such wonderful things, setting her ablaze with need of him. She could feel him everywhere, his solid, steady presence at her back, his strong arms encircling her, cradling her close against him, the heat of his lips trailing down her neck towards her collarbone. Her heart pounded in her chest, a delicious heat churning deep in her belly as his hands splayed out across her stomach; she could feel the tension in him, the need, the longing for more, and her body echoed that call, urging him silently on. Rather brazenly she arched in his embrace, knowing that with every move of her body she was pressing further and further back against his own, wondering if he felt as close to spontaneous combustion as did she, at the thought of them finally falling together. She wanted it, wanted _him,_ now, in the kitchen, in the sitting room, in his bed, wherever he fancied, so long as she continued to feel the delirious heat of his touch.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his hands began to rise, following the soft plane of her stomach up and up and up; her breath caught in her throat as she realized where this was going, what was finally happening, as his lips abandoned her shoulder and settled once more upon her neck, just behind her ear. In that instant she was ridiculously pleased that she had chosen to wear her hair up, that she had provided them both this opportunity, but then his hands rose that little bit further, until they were cradling her breasts, kneading her softly through her dress and drawing a little whimper from deep in the back of her throat. In his arms she all but trembled, desperate to feel those hands against her bare skin. Earlier in the night she had prevaricated, wondering if this was really the best moment for them, but all of her reservations disappeared in a flash, burned into nothingness by the fire that Harry had ignited deep within her. She had waited eight years for this, and she was damned if she was waiting another moment longer.

Another whimper left her as he pushed her forwards, her hips caught between his own and the edge of the sink; she realized, rather delightedly, that she could feel his hardness pressed against the swell of her ass, that he had no intention of hiding his own desire from her. His hands tightened their grip, as he trailed kisses around her neck and she lost all control of herself.

"Do you have any idea," he growled, catching the lobe of her ear between his teeth and biting down just enough to elicit another needy little sound of want from her, "how lovely you are?"

"Harry," she breathed his name, more aroused than she could recall having been for quite some time, arching her back and in the process pressing her breasts further against his hands, pressing her bottom harder against his growing arousal. Things were progressing faster than she had anticipated, but somehow Ruth did not quite see that as a problem; they had talked enough for one evening, she felt. The thumb of his right hand found her nipple, hard and straining for him through her dress, and he circled it gently, setting stars to dancing behind her eyelids. She was preparing herself to turn in his arms, to wrap herself around him and kiss him with everything she had, when the room erupted into a blaze of hellfire.

It happened so quickly; one second Harry was kissing her, touching her, awakening the desire that for so long had lain dormant within her, and the next second the window in front of them had shattered, and she had screamed, and Harry had thrown her bodily to the floor, shielding her with his own bulk as a torrent of bullets ricocheted around the kitchen, shattering their dream of a peaceful life together.


	8. Chapter 8

"Harry?" Ruth whispered in the shattering stillness that followed the rain of bullets. He'd pinned her beneath him, his hands cradling her head, holding her face close to his chest, trying to cover every inch of her with his own bulk in the hope that he could take most of the damage. It was not the first time Harry had endured such a scene, and if one of them had to be wounded, he'd much prefer that it be him; he'd been shot before, and it was an experience he'd rather Ruth never suffer. He'd taken the brunt of their fall, trying to protect her; his knee and his shoulder, both wounded and tender from previous calamities, were protesting at his rough treatment. It couldn't have mattered less, to Harry; he would have torn the beating heart from his own chest, if only to keep her safe.

She was bleeding, he saw; there were countless little cuts on her face, her neck, her arms, her hands, left by flying pieces of glass when the window burst. The sight of her blood, bright and terrible and red against the smooth paleness of her skin, left him nearly paralyzed with fear, but as he gazed down on upon her he saw that none of her wounds were grievous, and he counted them lucky for it. In all the attack had lasted no more than a few seconds, and he was fairly certain that they were through the worst of it, that whoever had sought to do them harm would have cut and run the moment they thought their task was through. Still, he was reluctant to move, worried that the moment they rose to their feet the violence would begin anew.

"All right, Ruth?" he asked her, his voice hoarse and unsteady. As he lay there above her he felt a moment of bitter disappointment; though he had hoped that they would end the evening tangled up in one another, this was not quite what he had in mind.

"You're bleeding," she whispered, snaking her hand out from between them and reaching up to brush her thumb across a small laceration on his brow. His face had been buried against her neck, when the shooting started, but even so he had not escaped entirely unscathed.

"I'm fine," he said reassuringly. "Come on, let's sit up."

Though he did not dare stand, did not dare bring his face into view of the broken window, he thought it couldn't hurt to move to a more comfortable position. They shuffled around together, until they were both sitting on the floor, their backs propped up against the cabinet, and Harry's left arm draped around Ruth's shoulders. She curled into him, resting her head against his chest, just above his wildly beating heart. It was so bloody _unfair;_ for years now he had longed to touch her, to hold her, to learn the taste of her skin, and the moment he finally felt his dreams within reach their peaceful evening had been destroyed by terror.

Harry had no doubt that this attack was somehow connected to their work; whoever had fired that gun had likely been watching the house, waiting for a clear shot. They'd chosen their moment well, when Ruth and Harry were both standing still, in full view of the street beyond. But who would do such a thing, and why? Why now, when Harry had only been back on the job for two days? There had been no indication, in the weekly threat assessments, in Harry's own life, that something like this was brewing. It had taken him utterly by surprise, and Harry hated being on the back foot.

The sounds of the world beyond his kitchen drifted in on a cool breeze through the ruined window; from somewhere in the distance Harry could hear the excited chatter of his neighbors, the far-off wailing of a police siren. Gunshots were not a common occurrence in this area, and no doubt someone had rung for help the moment the first bullet burst forth. Perhaps someone had seen something, a suspicious man, a car peeling off into the night. It was a thin, feeble hope, but it was all he had, at present.

"Plods are coming," Ruth murmured tiredly, still sheltered beneath his arm.

Harry muttered grimly under his breath, and fished his mobile from his pocket, ringing Erin at once and demanding that she gather the team and as many techies as she could muster, double-time. He would keep the plods busy, until Erin arrived and shooed them off. And then the real work could begin. That his own life had been threatened was troubling, but more concerning still was that _Ruth_ had been in the line of fire; Harry would never forgive himself, if she took a bullet meant for him. It was unthinkable, a horror that pierced him to his very soul. All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to keep her safe.

* * *

Though Ruth had entertained the notion of ending this evening curled up with Harry on his sofa, she hadn't quite imagined it like this. They were sitting together in silence, not touching, hardly breathing, as Harry's home slowly filled with people. The police had arrived, with an ambulance not far behind, and Harry had quietly explained the situation to the lead investigator while a medic fussed over Ruth's many cuts. None of them were particularly deep, but there had been a few slivers of glass buried in the rise of her cheekbone that needed to be carefully extracted, and then each wound had been cleaned and covered with a plaster. Through it all Ruth felt a bit foolish, having to submit to such attentions, but Harry had been adamant that she allow the paramedics to tend to her, and her nerves were too raw to make a battle of it.

Erin, Dimitri, and Callum had arrived together, closely followed by a veritable army of other agents; they summarily dismissed the police, and then set about their own investigation, pouring out of the house like ants from a hive once they'd received their marching orders. There were neighbors to interview, CCTV cameras to reference, evidence to collect, and in the meantime Harry and Ruth had been shunted off to the side where they languished, waiting for Erin to come and take their statements.

Ruth's mind was whirring, as she sat there cloaked in fear and doubt; to her, it did not seem to be a coincidence, that this calamity had befallen them while she and Harry were together. No doubt he was berating himself, thinking that it was some sin of his own that had brought this darkness down upon them, but Ruth could not help thinking that if someone had wanted to take him out, there had been a thousand nights when he had been in this home alone, when he could be murdered without any collateral damage. _God is in the details;_ the timing of it seemed important, but she could not for the life of her think what it meant.

Beside her Harry shifted, giving his head a shake like a dog emerging from deep water. Slowly he reached out and took her hand in his own, squeezing her gently. She returned that steady pressure, wanting to remind him that she was still here with him, that she was not running. That decision had been made the moment she declared her love for him aloud, the moment he took her in his arms and kissed her so passionately; whatever the future brought, they would face it, together.

Having delivered her orders to the assembled agents Erin came stalking back into the room, Dimitri hot on her heels. Callum was directing operations in the kitchen, painstakingly marking the resting place of each bullet before gathering them up in an attempt to recreate their trajectory and find the place where the assailant had stood. Ruth had worked with this team for two months, while she waited for her transfer to the Home Office to go through, and though she had her reservations about the brash, impulsive Callum and the cold, calculating Erin, she knew that they were in good hands, that these people were the best of the best. If anyone could discover who was behind this attack, it would be this formidable assemblage before her.

As Erin and Dimtri settled themselves into the armchairs opposite them Ruth debated with herself for a moment, wondering if she ought to remove her hand from Harry's grasp. He didn't present the most authoritative facade, just now, sitting on his sofa in his shirtsleeves and bare feet, holding hands with a former employee. Somehow, though, she couldn't quite bring herself to deny them both the comfort of that gentle touch, and she supposed it was too late to save face now. They all knew, now; they had come to Harry's home in the still of the night and found him and Ruth together, two sets of dirty dishes in the sink, two empty wine glasses on the table. There was no mistaking what she was doing there, and no sense in pretending otherwise, and so Ruth clung to Harry's hand, her only tether in this sea of madness, and waited for someone else to speak.

"Are you all right?" Erin asked. It was a rather inane question, Ruth thought; someone had tried to kill them both, and now Harry's home had been infiltrated by the techies. He would almost definitely have to move, now that his security had been compromised, and Ruth had just spent thirty minutes being fussed over by paramedics. Still, though, the interview had to start somewhere, and Ruth knew that Erin was only trying her best, trying to put them at their ease, though her gaze kept flickering down to their interwoven fingers, the question she really wanted to ask remaining unspoken for now.

"Erin," Harry began gruffly, clearly not wanting to waste time on the niceties, "I have absolutely no idea who might have done this. I've been on suspension the last two months, I've not been involved with any open operations." A thought began to form in Ruth's mind, as Harry was speaking. He was right, he had not been working for the last two months, but he had not been sitting idle in his house, either.

"You _are_ working on the upcoming intelligence sharing deal with the Russians, though," Erin pointed out.

Harry had begun to speak, no doubt intending to explain why he didn't think it was the Russians, but Ruth cut him off as her suspicions began to take shape.

"Harry," she murmured, wishing they could have had this conversation in private, away from the prying eyes of his team. She turned to him slightly, trying to block out the sight of Erin, eager and attentive and leaning towards her as if she did not want to miss a word. "Until yesterday, you were under round-the-clock surveillance. No one could have come near you."

"Why would they want to?" Harry asked, his gaze intent and focused on her. This was how they worked best, the pair of them, when they could sit together in the quiet and talk to one another, bounce ideas back and forth until a pattern emerged from the chaos. This was what Ruth missed most, about working on the Grid, the deep, intrinsic understanding they each possessed, one for the other.

"The tribunal," she rushed on. "It wasn't just about Albany, they picked apart your entire career." The inquiry had dragged on for weeks; though Ruth had originally intended to sit through every session she had been forced to return to work, to get her affairs in order and train up the new intelligence analyst before she went to work for Towers. She had heard enough during the few sessions she had attended, however, about Harry's sins and his glories, and she was beginning to wonder if perhaps the panel had turned over one stone too many in their quest to bring Harry to his knees. "What if this attack doesn't have anything to do with the Russians at all? It might just be that whoever shot at us tonight was waiting for your security detail to leave so they could take you out of the picture."

"Christ," Harry muttered, running his free hand over his face.

"That's a good place to start," Erin declared. "We can pull the transcripts from the hearings, cross reference the case files and see if there is anything incendiary enough to merit having Harry killed. In the meantime, you'll both be given security details, and Harry will need to find somewhere else to stay."

"Is that necessary?" Ruth asked, dismayed. She wasn't asking about Harry; of course he needed someone to watch out for him, of course he could not be allowed to stay in his home until the threat had subsided. What surprised her was the notion that _she_ needed protection. She hadn't counted on that, but as she took in the pitying look Erin gave her she realized that it was inevitable. Only a few minutes before she had been asking herself if perhaps she had been an intended victim of the attack, and no doubt Erin's thoughts had followed the same path; there was no way they were going to let her go on her own.

"Of course it's necessary," Harry grumbled beside her. "You were very nearly killed tonight, Ruth. You will have security."

"It may be a while, before we have any answers," Erin said, discreetly checking her mobile. It was obvious that Erin was just itching to be back in command, back in the thick of things, and there was very little else they could talk about, here in Harry's home without the resources of the Grid.

"I've got a meeting with the Russians first thing," Harry said, "but I'll be on the Grid as soon as that's done, and I'll be expecting a full report of your progress."

It was clear from his tone that Harry intended for them to work through the night; Erin's eyes were shining with something that looked oddly like glee at the prospect, while Dimitri, who so far had been silent, seemed much more resigned about the whole thing. It was equally clear that while Harry expected them to miss a good night's rest, he had no intention of joining them until the morning.

Erin rose to her feet, ready to set off, and Dimitri slowly followed her lead, though he paused for a moment and turned back to Harry.

"Where will you go?" he asked carefully. "In case we need to find you in a hurry."

"He can stay at mine," Ruth blurted, before she had a chance to think it through. Three sets of eyes turned to stare at her incredulously, Harry included; she kept her chin up, though her cheeks were burning. "Might as well make it easy for our security details," she said, knowing it was a feeble excuse but making it nonetheless.

"Right," said Erin slowly. "Well, Porter and Marks are waiting for you outside. They'll take you home. We'll ring you, Harry, the second we know something."

Harry grumbled his thanks and Erin swept from the room with Dimitri hot her heels, leaving Ruth and Harry alone at last.

"I don't have to stay, if you'd rather I didn't," Harry murmured, brushing the tips of his fingers softly over her knuckles where their hands were still joined. _Ever the gentleman,_ Ruth thought fondly. He had always tried so hard to be considerate of her, her wants, her needs, her fears, and she loved that about him, truly she did.

"I wouldn't have offered, if I didn't want you with me," she answered. And then, because they were alone, because he had treated her so gently, because her heart had not quite recovered from the shock of their brush with death, she leaned across and kissed him once, briefly, trying to recapture some of the warmth they had shared earlier in the evening. It was not the way she had intended for this night to end, and certainly not the way she had envisioned Harry spending the night in her home for the first time, but Ruth was so bloody grateful that they were both alive and well and whole that she could not stop herself from indulging in the taste of him. Just for a moment, though; the house was still full of people, and they could not linger.


	9. Chapter 9

Though they were returning to the same place for the evening their security details had agreed it would be safer to travel separately, in case whoever had attacked them was intent on taking out both of them at the same time. Porter and Marks, the intrepid agents who had been assigned to dog their every step for the foreseeable future, had grumbled about protocol for a moment, saying it was unwise to allow them to stay together - something about how _you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket -_ but one dark look from Harry had abruptly put an end to that conversation. He was still the Head of Section D, after all, regardless of the threat to his life, and neither agent was willing to risk his wrath. Marks had swept Ruth away from him, into a dark, unremarkable car, and Porter had ushered him into his own vehicle without another word. They took a circuitous route; Harry approved of Porter's counter-surveillance tactics, but even so he kept his own eyes locked firmly on the side mirror all the while, watching, waiting, his shoulders tense and uncertain. He doubted that the anonymous villain who had ruined his night with Ruth would be so foolhardy as to strike again so soon, when their guard was up and they were under protection, but he did not know yet who he was dealing with, and he was unwilling to risk Ruth's life - or indeed his own - on an assumption.

Upon arrival Porter insisted that Harry wait in the car while he did a sweep of the street, before making his way to the door alone. Those few minutes of inaction left Harry impatient and disgruntled; he absolutely bloody hated this, being shunted off to the side, forced to sit idle while others did all the work. There was no other choice, he knew; he could not spend the whole night in hands-on investigation, when Ruth needed watching over and he had the Russians to worry about in the morning. It would not do, to have him arrive to the meeting exhausted and unsettled, and no word of this calamity could be allowed to reach the Russian delegation, for fear that it would weaken the British position in negotiations. And as the subject of an ongoing operation, he had to follow protocol, had to allow his agents to do their job, and protect him. He may not have liked it, but he understood it.

Marks answered the door and spoke quietly with Porter for a moment, and then Harry's minder returned to the vehicle once more, and walked him into the flat. The three men stood together there on the threshold for a moment, speaking to one another in low voices.

"I'll lock up, once you're gone," Harry said, dropping the black holdall that contained the personal items he'd gathered for the evening on the floor. "You'll have the street covered?"

"We will," Porters answered. "We're on watch until we get you both to the Home Office in the morning, and then the day shift will take over."

Harry nodded; that was as it should be. He wanted the men assigned to watch his back to be awake and alert, and he was pleased to hear that a rota had already been established.

"Any sign of trouble?" he asked, turning to Marks as he spoke. He had no need to ask that question of his own agent, but he needed reassurance that Ruth would be well, that there was no indication of anyone following her at present.

"None," Marks answered at once. "We took a rather inconvenient route, and we didn't pick up a tail."

That was the best Harry could hope for, at present, and so he shook both their hands and bid them goodnight, locking the door the moment they stepped through it.

The quiet of Ruth's little face was a welcome respite, following the chaos that had consumed his own home. It was difficult to believe that it was only the night before that he'd stood in this very spot, his arms full of Ruth, his heart singing out for joy at the taste of her kiss. So much had happened, over the last few hours, and the darkness of the world beyond this little flat had stolen over him once more, had taken that joy and that hope and replaced it with doubt and trepidation once more. His mind raced as he wandered through the flat in search of her; what must she be feeling, now that they had been so callously exposed to their colleagues? She was such a private person, he knew, and gossip and intimation had sent her running from him once before. Would history repeat itself? He couldn't bear the thought of losing her again, not now, not when they'd finally seized the opportunity to make a future for themselves.

As he walked he reminded himself that she had not shied from his touch, in his home, and though Dimitri and Erin had sat across from them and stared in silent wonder Ruth had allowed him to hold her hand in his own, had allowed him that comfort, that nearness, regardless of who could see. Surely that boded well for them, surely that meant that she had come round to the idea of them being together, and nevermind who knew it.

Didn't it?

He found her in the kitchen, sitting at her table nursing a cup of tea. When she caught sight of him she smiled; though her face was wan and pale, her eyes were warm and kind as they always were when they looked upon him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

She was a beautiful woman, this love of his. Slight but soft, gentle but strong, lovely but not intimidating; it seemed to him that she had come to represent everything that was good in the world, as if the universe had absorbed every quality he could ever long for in a lover and melted it down and poured it into the form of the woman sitting across the room from him. She watched him in silence, a silence that spoke so much more eloquently than any words ever could have, their gazes catching and holding and blazing there in her kitchen, memories of what they had started in his house on the other side of the city reigniting the fire that burned between them, ratcheting up the rate of his pulse and leaving him breathless with yearning. Something had changed between them, when he'd kissed her neck and dragged his hands ever so slowly along the curves of her body; that desire had always been there, for as long as he had known her, but it had changed over time, as they had infiltrated one another's lives, as she had insinuated herself beneath his skin. That desire had grown into something larger than both of them, a brushfire they could only barely contain, but until now they _had_ contained it. Somewhere, deep in the darkest corners of their souls, they had found the self-denial to keep from collapsing into one another's arms each time the opportunity presented itself. Standing at his sink, his hardness pressed against the swell of her ass, her moans loud in his ear, that self-denial had abandoned them. There was no longer any reason, for him to keep his distance from her, and they both knew it. One step, two, and he would be by her side; it would be so _easy_ , so damnably _easy_ to draw her into his arms and consign them both to the flames, to throw away their caution and dive headfirst into the glory that awaited them.

Still, though, he hesitated. Even as she rose and discarded her tea cup in the sink, the hem of her navy dress swirling provocatively around her knees, hinting at the soft paleness of her thighs, thighs he longed to kiss and touch and taste and lose himself between, he hesitated. She was a beautiful woman, this love of his, soft and warm and finally opening her heart to him, but he did not wish to railroad her into an intimacy she was not ready for, did not want to gloss over the horror they had endured this night and paw at her as if he were some sort of letch only interested in the delights of her body and unconcerned by the troubles of her soul. She meant more to him than that, and he was determined to prove it to her, to treat her gently and in so doing demonstrate that he was here for her, for as long as she would have him, in whatever capacity she required.

And so when she reached him, her expression guarded but hopeful, he did not pull her close, did not crush his lips to hers, did not allow his hands to retrace the path they had forged mere hours before. Instead he reached for her hand, linking their fingers together and smiling down softly at her.

* * *

Harry was smiling at her, that warm, tender smile he reserved just for her, and her nerves calmed, somewhat, at the sight. They were alone again, properly alone, and he was not admonishing her or bombarding her with questions or allowing himself to be consumed by questions over who had tried to kill them only a few hours before. He was with her now, present and intent and engaged with _her_ , and with nothing else. She drew comfort from that fact, from knowing that he had put aside his workaholic tendencies in the name of looking after her first. Nothing else could have comforted her, reassured her, left her feeling as safe and as warm and as happy as she did in that moment save for this, having Harry with her. He was here, and he would protect her from the terrors of the dark, as he always did.

"You need to rest," he murmured softly.

"So do you," she answered, giving his hand a little squeeze, drawing strength from the warmth of his skin pressed against her own. Without a word she turned, and led the way back down the hall toward her bedroom, with a brief pause in the foyer while Harry collected his things. With every step they took, drawing nearer her bed, Ruth felt her thoughts running in one inevitable direction, her heart pounding faster and faster with each passing second. They had come so close, so damnably _close_ to crossing that final bridge, to leaping into the abyss together, wrapped up tight around one another the way they had longed to be for so very long, and with each step she took Ruth found herself hoping that they could somehow rekindle that desire, her mind running away with her as she imagined Harry's hands, broad and strong and tender, tracing the shape of her body and bringing her to life once more. For so long she had been adrift, stumbling through her life numb to her surroundings, but on this night she felt vibrant, her whole body thrumming with hope and possibility, and Harry was _here,_ with her, in her home, preparing himself to spend the night in her bed.

Surely they could, she mused as she led Harry into her bedroom, as he dropped his holdall on the bed and turned to look at her, his eyes shining in the semi-darkness. There would be talk tomorrow, she knew, tongues wagging at her having been discovered in his home, at their having retired to her flat together, and she decided in that moment that if the gossips were going to be nattering on anyway, there was no sense in denying herself the pleasure that Harry had promised her earlier in the evening. This was their moment, their chance, and she was determined to grasp it with both hands.

Ever so gently Harry lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her once before he released her and began to shuffle through his bag.

"It's late, Ruth," he said, not unkindly. "I want you to know, I'm not expecting anything."

The world around her seemed to stutter, slightly, as she was thrown onto the back foot. Before he'd spoken Ruth had been sure that his thoughts were drifting in the same rather lascivious direction as her own, certain that the expression she saw swirling in the depths of his honey brown eyes was hunger, for her. There was something finite in his tone, however, something that seemed to suggest that he was drawing a line beneath what had happened earlier in the evening, that he was resigning them both to a night spent sleeping together, and nothing more. This, she had not been prepared for. Though she was feeling bolder, more confident than she could recall having felt for quite some time, she did not quite have the courage to talk him into going further, did not quite have the fortitude to go about seducing him deliberately. In truth, she was rather dismayed, that he had already decided that nothing more would happen between them on this night, and so she only nodded, ducking her head, hiding her flaming cheeks from his gaze.

"That's fine, Harry," she told him as she stepped away, busying herself with rooting through her drawers in search of a shirt to sleep in. "We need to sleep, we've got the Russians first thing in the morning."

He hummed and then departed, shuffling off down the hall in search of the bathroom, leaving a rather flustered, frustrated, flummoxed woman in his wake.

* * *

Ruth set off for the loo when he returned, leaving Harry to crawl into bed alone. He had hesitated for a moment, wondering if he ought to wait for her before lying down, but in the end he decided there was no way for him to stand around that did not feel awkward or contrived. He had brought a shirt and a light pair of pajama trousers to sleep in, and thus attired he slipped beneath the duvet and rested his head upon a pillow that smelled delightfully of her. Though he knew that he had done the right thing, in setting her at ease, in graciously putting aside his own desire for her in the name of her comfort, he could not help but feel somewhat disappointed. He had hoped, before the disaster in his kitchen, that they might spend this night in a mutually enjoyable fashion, naked and sweaty and satiated for the first time in eight long years. His hopes had been dispelled by a rain of bullets, however, and his wants had to come second to Ruth's fears. It was the right thing, he knew, and truth be told, he was looking forward to it, in a way, to spending the night beside her, lulled into sleep by her gentle breathing, with the promise of her face to greet him when he woke. It would be enough. It had to be enough.

Eventually she returned, dressed in much the same fashion as he, the pale skin he longed to explore hidden from view by fabric now. Her hair was loose, framing her face, and when coupled with her soft pajamas the effect was rather charming; she looked young, for once, tired but not weary as she had been these last few years. She was much too young for him, much too young and much too lovely and much too kind, but she was here, with him, blushing as she turned off the lights and slipped beneath the duvet to lie beside him.

"All right, Ruth?" he asked her in a quiet voice as she shuffled around beside him.

With a sigh she came to a stop, her body mere inches from him, the shine of her eyes visible even in the darkness.

"I am, Harry," she answered him just as quietly. "Are you?'

He leaned across the space between them and kissed her once, gently, reassuringly. "I am," he answered.

Slowly, there in the dark of quiet of her room, they relaxed, the tension leaching from their bones until at last they gave themselves over to sleep, and to dreams of all that was to come.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: This chapter is M rated.**

* * *

Though his refusal to push their relationship forward had left Ruth feeling a bit disappointed and a bit embarrassed at her own eagerness, she had slipped into sleep rather quickly, exhausted after the events of the evening and comforted by Harry's warm, steady presence beside her. Perhaps he had been right, to call a halt to proceedings; they had not spoken to one another for months, and one anguished declaration of love and a few passionate kisses across the course of two days could not be expected to erase all the heartache they'd caused one another over eight long years. Perhaps, Ruth told herself as she drifted off into dreams, all they needed was a bit more time, to adjust to the change in circumstances between them. They could make this work, with a bit of a time, a bit of effort, a few more delirious embraces. There was no need to rush.

Ruth had not been asleep very long, no more than an hour or two, when she awoke with a start, her heart pounding and her breath coming in short gasps. For a moment she lay still as a board, dispelling the fog of sleep and struggling to orient herself. The world outside her bedroom window was dark, and the grittiness behind her eyelids told her it was not yet time to rise and greet the coming of a new day. She found herself drawn out of the haze of sleep and into reality as a diver emerging from deep water, everything around her slowly coming into focus, every detail brightening with each passing second until all at once she found she understood precisely where she was and how she had come to be there.

Beside her, Harry was snoring. That was what had woken her, the incessant, rumbling sound of his snoring as he lay beside her. He was flat on his back, his face turned towards her in sleep; for her part Ruth had curled around him while she slept, and she was somewhat mortified to discover that she had rolled onto his arm in her sleepy haste to draw close to him, trapping it beneath her as she rested with her head on his shoulder, her legs wrapped around his thigh beneath the duvet. It would seem that Harry was untroubled by her unconscious affections, though she knew that if she spent the whole night sleeping on his arm he'd not thank her for it in the morning. The sound emerged from deep in the back of his throat once more, rumbling in a way that brought to mind a train barreling down the tracks. As content as he seemed to be in this moment, Ruth knew she would get no more sleep tonight if they carried on in this fashion.

Which left her with the rather unpleasant task of disentangling herself from him, and finding some way to abate the steady stream of gargling sounds emanating from her almost-lover.

Carefully she shifted, drawing her legs away from him first, assuming a much more demure posture before lifting herself up on one elbow, taking her weight off his arm and leaning over him, her face close to his in the darkness. He really was lovely, her Harry; she did not often have the opportunity to examine him at repose, as peaceful as he looked just now, and she greedily drank in the sight of him, his pale eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth smooth and untroubled as he rested, his full lips parted slightly -

Those full lips let loose another loud, rather undignified sound and Ruth had to fight hard to keep her own giggles at bay. Harry snored! _Who would have thought,_ she wondered winsomely as she watched him, the experience of sleeping beside him still new and enchanting enough to ward off any ungracious feelings she might have been harboring at having been awoken so abruptly. This was something she had not known about him, only a few hours before. This was one of those things, those personal, private things that only she was privy to now, and though it was a bit annoying, she was ridiculously pleased at having discovered it. If asked, she might even have gone so far as to describe his snuffling little sounds as adorable, though she knew Harry would not appreciate such a descriptor being applied to him.

Yet another snore escaped him, and Ruth, having finally managed to rein in her delight at having him there beside her, at seeing him so relaxed and off-guard, set about waking him, and helping them both enjoy what little sleep they could before the sun rose.

"Harry," she murmured as she leaned over him, unable to resist the temptation to brush her lips against his cheek. Perhaps she'd spoken too softly; he did not stir. And so she tried again.

"Harry," she repeated, a bit louder this time. Beneath her Harry shifted slightly, his eyelids fluttering, a soft, dreamy sigh escaping his lips. She waited, but he did not move again, and after a moment another loud snore came rumbling out of him.

Feeling a bit exasperated now, Ruth let loose a sigh of her own. "Oh for goodness sake," she muttered. "Harry!" She gave his shoulder a little shake for emphasis.

He jolted awake, his eyes flying open and focusing at once on her face, his arms rising and falling in an instinctive attempt to protect himself before his mind caught up with his surroundings.

"Ruth?" he asked, his voice soft and uncertain, his eyes wary but alert. She marveled at that briefly, at how he could so quickly shift from sleep to vigilance. It was a skill he had honed through the years, she supposed, a result of his dangerous and sometimes violent work.

"It's all right," she told him soothingly, brushing her hand across his chest. "You were snoring."

"Oh," he said, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes. " Right. I've been told I do that."

 _By whom?_ Ruth wondered, suddenly intensely curious, intensely jealous, overcome by an unexpected wave of possessiveness. Harry was _hers_ , and she did not like the thought that there might be others out there in the world who shared in the secrets she now knew about him. There must be, she knew, women who had shared his bed, who had sampled his prowess, the heat of his body that Ruth had so far only dreamed about, but it was one thing to know that those women existed, and another thing entirely for Harry to mention them to her while he was lying in her bed.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he said contritely, drawing her attention back to him once more. Yes, there had been others, but that jealousy faded, as she gazed down at him. Whoever had come before, he was with her now, intent and focused on her, relaxed and content in her bed, as she had wanted him to be for so very long. Beneath her he shifted, rolling onto his side, and Ruth followed his lead, sliding back down beneath the duvet and turning her back on him, preparing herself to try to sleep once more.

Perhaps he was still half-asleep, or perhaps the darkness had made him bold, or perhaps he simply wanted to; whatever the reason, Harry rolled towards her, wrapping one strong arm around her waist and drawing her flush against him so that her spine nestled against the hard plane of his chest, curving his body around her, his warmth delicious and infectious. Ruth sighed in bliss, unable to contain her joy at having him near, and lifted one hand, running it across his forearm, feeling the play of his muscles beneath her fingertips, the softness of the fine blonde hair scattered across his skin. He was warm and real and _here_ , in her bed, with her, and Ruth was overcome with joy in that moment.

Harry hummed softly at her touch; he leaned forward, brushing her hair aside with his nose so that he could plant a gentle kiss on the back of her neck. That one touch was all it took, to transport her back to his kitchen, to the feel of his hands tracing the contours of her body, the delirious want he had awoken inside her, and though his kiss had been tender, Ruth found her heart beating faster, her breathing shallower, want and need churning deep within her. It was dark, and they still had time, yet, time to be together, alone, away from the world, sheltered here in the peaceful quiet of her bedroom. Maybe this could be their time, she thought, dragging her fingertips across his hand where it rested against her stomach, tracing the outline of his fingers and thinking all sort of untoward thoughts about his hands, and the pleasure they had promised her only a few hours before.

"Ruth," he whispered her name, drawing her further back against him. Perhaps he had felt the tension in her, and discerned its cause. Perhaps his thoughts had drifted back to the kitchen as well, and he could no more deny himself than Ruth could deny her own longing for him. Whatever the reason, the gentle pressure of his hand drew her back until she could feel his hardness nestled against her bottom, not demanding or insisting but simply suggesting, offering, waiting for her to accept or deny him as she chose.

Taking a deep breath to calm her stuttering heart Ruth flattened her palm against the back of Harry's hand and carefully guided him up and up until he was once more cradling her breast, and in the process she pressed back against him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she was as willing a participant as he. _This is our time,_ she thought as with her encouragement Harry's fingertips set a course for her nipple, drawing careful circles around it and leaving her shivering and hopeful and ablaze with desire. He kissed her again, his lips tracing the lines of her neck even as he ground forward against her, making no attempt to hide his obvious arousal from her. He must have woken hard and aching for her, just as she had woken consumed by thoughts of him, yearning for his touch, and nothing else made sense in that moment but that they should given into this need they both felt, and sate their weary souls.

No longer content with having her back towards him Ruth rolled in his arms; Harry shifted above her, making room for her to nestle her body beneath his own. It was his turn to stare down at her in wonder, hunger in his gaze as his raked eyes over her, leaving her feeling as exposed as if she were lying beneath him naked, and not covered from head to foot in her favorite faded pajamas. The soft fabric of her shirt could not hide her nipples, hard and standing to attention and begging for his touch, could not hide her trembling, her gasping breaths; this man who knew her so well could no doubt read her want with a single glance, and that thought was as confronting as it was comforting. He smiled at her softly before he bowed his head to kiss her, capturing her lips with his own; such was the heat, the fire of his kiss, the sheer delight it inspired in her, that Ruth moved beneath him all unthinking, raising her legs to lock around his waist, drawing him down against her so that his hardness nudged against her center, drawing whimpers of delight from both of them.

 _This_ was more what she'd had in mind, when they'd gone to bed earlier in the evening; they were sleepy and somewhat frightened, all too aware of the circumstances that had led them back to her flat, but they were together, and for however brief a time they forgot their troubles, their long separation and bitter words and the rain of bullets that had nearly killed them both. They were still alive, still breathing, their hearts still pounding frantically within their chests, and nothing else made sense but they should love one another, now, while they could, while the stars danced outside her bedroom window and their demons reclined in the shadows. For however brief a time they could banish their fears, could build for themselves a moment of peace, of joy, of surrender, protected by the quiet, steadfast love they harbored one for the other.

Harry shifted his weight back, freeing his hands and drawing away from her so that he could reach between them, his fingertips dancing across her skin beneath her soft gray pajama top. There was a question in his eyes, an uncertainty that Ruth answered with her own conviction, reaching down to wrap her hands around his wrists, encouraging him to continue what he'd started. Assured of her permission, her willingness to see how far this thing between them might be allowed to go, Harry divested her of her shirt; before he could begin his ravishing of her Ruth pressed her hands against his chest, gathering the fabric of his shirt in her fingertips. Harry understood, as he always did, without need of words, and removed his shirt himself, so that they lay together, gasping and half naked and tangled together in her bed.

"That's more like it," Ruth breathed, but even as she spoke Harry leaned forward onto his hands, kissing her once more, his tongue invading her mouth and drawing a soft, mewling sound of want from deep in the back of her throat. She wrapped her hands around his forearms, bracing herself even as she ground up against him once more, lost in sensation and her body's demand for release, for salvation. Slowly, ever so slowly Harry dragged his lips away from her mouth, ghosting down her neck, over the sharp rise of her collarbones, heading for the smooth swell of her breasts, and for her part Ruth only clung to him, desperate for some piece of something real to tether her to this moment, to remind her that this was not a dream. Harry was here, in her bed, where she had for so long wanted him to be, and she was determined to enjoy every moment of it.

* * *

He could not get enough of her. Could not get enough of the sounds she made, the movement of her hips beneath him, the salty taste of her skin beneath his lips. She was transcendent, his Ruth, glorious in her abandon, a goddess sheltered within the circle of his arms. He had divested them both of their clothing and rolled her once more beneath him, his lips intent on mapping out every exquisite inch of her breasts, his fingers delving deep within the warmth and wet between her thighs, and with every move of his body Ruth countered with a graceful, supple movement of her own, writhing beneath him in a carnal dance that drove him almost mad with want of her. It had taken them so long, so bloody _long_ to reach this point, and if he could have spared a moment to think he would have marveled at that, at Ruth lying beneath him with her legs wrapped around his waist all but begging him to take her while outside her door two agents watched and waited, searching for some sign of the madman who had tried to kill them. Never, in all his imaginings, had he thought they would ever come together like this, that Ruth would so easily set aside her fears, her private doubts, and embrace her love of him so fully. Perhaps it was not easy for her; no doubt Ruth had struggled through the labyrinthine quagmire of her own thoughts, traced a path of intellectual debate that would have left him reeling, before she came to the conclusion that they should no longer hold one another at arm's length. She was a consummate analyst, his Ruth, and though he could not begin to understand the way her mind worked he was desperately grateful that she had reached this conclusion, that she had given herself over so wholly to their love of one another.

This would not be the last time, he told himself as once more he thrust his fingers inside her and once more her eyelashes fluttered across her cheeks, a sharp, heady sound escaping her, her fingers digging in hard to his biceps where she gripped him like a vice. This would be the first of many, and as such, he was determined to make it memorable, but almost completely incapable of waiting another moment to sheath himself inside her. _I'll have to make it up to her,_ he thought decisively, even as he withdrew his hand from between her thighs, her hips rising up to follow him, desperate for more.

He snaked one hand beneath her, clutching the smooth swell of her buttocks, holding her up, as with the other he guided himself between her legs, stroking his hardness along the length of her folds and drawing a gasp from her once more.

"Harry," she breathed, and even as she spoke he thrust himself inside her, just a bit, trying to mindful of her comfort even as he sought his own release within the warmth and wet of her.

He leaned over her, one hand pressed flat to the mattress by her head, holding himself up as he thrust into her once again. Beneath him she whimpered, her legs locking tight around his waist, holding him close, her hips moving in time to his own. It should not have surprised him, that they worked so well together, that they had fallen into a synchronicity he had never before experienced the moment she first turned to face him. After everything they had endured together they knew one another inside and out, could each predict the thoughts, the wants, the needs of the other with an ease borne of practice, and it stood to reason that that innate understanding would translate itself quite easily to the bedroom. It helped, of course, that she was a beautiful woman and he had been dreaming of making love to her for years on end. He had gone over and over every second of their coupling in his mind a thousand times in the past, lying cold and lonely and dreaming of her in his empty bed. This performance was the end result of a thousand rehearsals, and if the way Ruth was trembling beneath him was anything to go by, she had been looking forward to just as much as he.

He kissed her once, because he could, because her full lips were parted and gasping and so close to his own, and then he gave himself over to the siren song of her body, pounding into her relentlessly, building her up and up until with each powerful thrust of his body she was panting and whimpering beneath him, until the desperate bucking of her hips beneath him stuttered, and her inner walls clamped down upon him like a vice, drawing him in deeper and deeper until they shattered together, groaning and moaning and enraptured. He emptied himself inside her, unwilling to draw back from the quivering of her sex around her, unable to move thanks to the grip of her legs around his waist. Her thighs held him, cradled him, refused to let him go, and he sank down against her, his head pillowed on her breast, his breaths sharp and short, and the only thought that broke through the haze of his euphoria was _I love you._ He may have spoken out loud, or may have whispered it to her somewhere deep inside his mind; he could not be sure, and he did not care.

* * *

"What do you think they're doing in there?" Marks asked over the coms. Porter was parked at one end of the street, Marks at the other, each with a clear line of sight to the house, each alert, but terribly bored. Ruth Evershed lived on a quiet street, and they had not seen so much as a stray cat, let alone a mad gunmen to relieve the tedium of their night's watch. Even so, Marks's question was in poor taste.

"Sleeping, most like," Porter told him gruffly. It was just unprofessional, to make such an inquiry, and he rather hoped that Marks would take the hint, would spare him having to deliver a sharp rebuke. They were a team, and they needed to act like it, unified in all things in order to keep Sir Harry and Ruth Evershed out of danger. There was no time for idle gossip.

Through his ear piece he heard Marks hum in a slightly dissatisfied way, but to his relief his partner did not broach the subject of Sir Harry's nocturnal activities again.

Porter had heard rather a lot, over the years, about Sir Harry and Ruth and the tangled web of their relationship. Though the pair had been enjoying a quiet dinner when they were attacked, though they had adjourned to her flat together, Porter couldn't quite bring himself to believe there was anything untoward between them. After all, if the woman hadn't thrown herself into his arms after the Albany fiasco, Porter supposed there was nothing Sir Harry could do to make her love him. If that hadn't impressed her, nothing would. They were just friends, he was almost certain.

* * *

Harry had fallen to sleep almost at once, whispering softly _I love you_ before his eyes closed and he gave himself over to dreams. He had fallen asleep on his stomach, and Ruth hoped that would be sufficient to put an end to the rumbling of his snores for the evening. As soon as her own breathing had returned to normal she shuffled herself off to the loo, catching a glimpse of the clock as she walked by. It was nearly 3:00 a.m.; there was still time for her to get some rest, before they had to be dressed and pressed and ready to face the Russians. She took the time to tidy herself up a bit, unable to keep the smile from her face. They had done it, somehow. They had come through fire and calamity, through grief and rage and loss, and found their way to one another. Harry had rocked her to her very core, had left her tingling and aching in a delicious sort of way, had loved her with everything he had, had imprinted the memory of his powerful body along every inch of her skin. In a way they had always belonged to one another, had always belonged together, Ruth and Harry, two sides of the same coin, but now it seemed they had forged a new bond, had drawn closer than she had ever imagined was possible. There would be talk, tomorrow, and tribulations to come, but for now her heart was singing, and she was too overcome with joy to be troubled with tomorrow's worries. The night was not over yet, and she was determined to enjoy this. With that smile she could not shake she made her way back to bed, sliding beneath Harry's arm and settling herself down to sleep once more.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry awoke just before dawn, his body relaxed and content and strangely light, after the chaos of the night before. For a time he remained right where he was, hesitant to move and break the spell that had fallen over him in sleep. He rested on his stomach, his nose buried in Ruth's hair, her body soft and warm beneath his arm. The only sound he could hear was her gentle breathing, slow and smooth and steady, a quiet chorus encouraging him to rest, just a little while longer. He could not find his way back to sleep, however; he'd lifted his head and glanced at the little clock on her bedside table, and inwardly cursed. There was never enough bloody _time;_ though they had carved out a moment for themselves, in the dark hours of the night, the day was barreling towards them, calling them ever onward, away from the sanctuary they had built and into the uncertainty of their lives beyond these walls.

 _We'll have to make the time,_ he told himself, shifting slightly, rising above Ruth, the movements of his body pulling the duvet away from her, exposing the smooth expanse of her back to his hungry gaze. He hoped she wouldn't mind if he woke her a little early, and so he set to with a will, tracing his hands along the curve of her spine, down into the shallow dip just above her buttocks, pressing his lips to the rise of her shoulder.

Beneath him she shifted, sighing softly, sinking further down into the pillows, and Harry smiled against her skin, kissing her again because he could, because she was here, because he was overcome with joy at the thought that they had made it, somehow, that they were finally here, together, where he had always wanted them to be. There was no telling what the day might bring, but they had a few minutes' peace left to them, a few moments in which to indulge themselves in quiet exploration, and he was resolved to enjoy every second of it.

"Good morning," he murmured softly. How momentous that was, he mused as she turned her head on the pillow, her eyes soft and sleepy and warm as she gazed at him over her shoulder. For eight long years he had wondered what it might be like, to whisper those words to her, to wake beside her, and now he knew. It felt like coming home.

"Good morning," she answered, shivering slightly as his hands continued their steady progress, mapping the span of her hips, teasing her in the pre-dawn darkness. A trail of goosebumps rose up in the wake of his hands, and he watched, fascinated, as she came to life beneath him.

"What time is it?" she asked him. Such a simple question, but he heard in her voice the same longing, the same hope that filled him. She was asking him, in her own subtle way, how much time they had left together.

"Half five," he answered, and beneath him, his lover sighed sadly. He tried to interpret that sound, tried to understand her disappointment; they did not have to meet with the Russians until 8:00, and by his calculation they had at least an hour before they needed to rush off to the shower. His right hand continued on its journey, tracing the swell of her buttocks, drifting down between her thighs, teasing her soft folds gently and drawing a mewling sound of appreciation from her lips. It wouldn't take much, he knew, to lift himself above her, to slide between her legs, to sate the sudden insistence of his cock, slowly hardening with want of her, to drown in her once more.

"I need to be at the Home Office by half seven," Ruth told him. "Seven, if I can manage it. I have some work to do, before our meeting."

Harry sighed and abandoned his exploration of her, responding to her unspoken command and collapsing down on the bed beside her. There would be no slow, languorous love making in their future, he realized as he watched the light filtering in through her curtains gradually growing brighter.

"But," she continued, leaning over to brush her lips against his cheek, "you can join me in the shower."

As far as consolation prizes went that was a fine one, and Harry offered her a brilliant grin before they rose together and shuffled off to the bathroom, blushing at their nakedness and gazing at one another in delight.

* * *

"I'm sorry there's not enough time for breakfast," Ruth apologized as they meandered across her flat, heading for the front door. "You can stay, if you like. Have a cup of coffee. I know you're not due in until later."

Harry wasn't entirely sure why she was apologizing; it was no one's fault but his that there would not be time for breakfast, as he had been completely distracted by the sight of a gloriously wet and naked Ruth, and turned their shower from a routine experience into an extraordinary dance that even now set his desire burning as he recalled it. She was smiling at him as they lingered there by her front door, as she slipped on her boots and her little cat wound round and round her ankles; no doubt her thoughts had joined his own, back in the shower.

"I'll stop and pick something up," Harry told her. In truth he was itching to start his day, unwilling to linger in this flat with the faint scent of her perfume and yet without her there to keep him company. His thoughts drifted towards a little stall by the embankment that sold a fine cup of coffee and even finer croissants; he could buy himself a little breakfast, and eat it on a bench overlooking the river, and watch his city come to life around him before making his way to the Home Office for business. It seemed a fine way to pass the time.

There was a knowing look in Ruth's eyes when she answered him. "Bring one for me, too?" she asked softly, reaching out to smooth his tie with her hand. Harry reached out and caught her wrist in his hand, pressing her palm flat to his chest, smiling down at her in the early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows behind them. The light danced across her face, brightened the shadows that so often lingered there, left her looking young and sweet and peaceful in a way she had not done since before she left him. There was so much he longed to say to her, so many wrongs he longed to right, but he felt they had made rather a fine start, last night and then this morning. There was work to be getting on with, dragons to slay, and so the knight said to his lady, "as you wish."

She rolled her eyes, and then rose up on her tiptoes, her fingers fisting in his shirt as she kissed him once, a long, unhurried kiss, a kiss that spoke so eloquently of her thoughts, her feelings in that moment. They weren't much on sharing, Harry and Ruth, were not particularly good at expressing their emotions aloud, but this bit they always seemed to get right. Their kisses always carried a world of meaning within them, and in this one he heard her whispering _I love you,_ and hoped that her heart could hear his answer.

At last they could delay no longer, and with a deep breath, Ruth swung the door open. Their minders were waiting just outside, and without further ado they were each whisked into their separate cars, each forced to direct their thoughts once more towards the protection of the realm, and away from their desire for one another.

* * *

Ruth had been at work for perhaps half an hour, slogging through a mound of paperwork in preparation for her day, when Margot came slipping through her office door with an indignant expression on her face and a contrite-looking young man in tow.

"Pardon the interruption," Margot said in a tone of voice that conveyed her irritation, and Ruth fought the urge to sigh as she put down her pen and faced the newcomers. She had hoped to spend the morning in quiet diligence, and yet from the moment she'd arrived she'd been waylaid by one distraction after another, emails and reports and thoughts of Harry's magnificent hands. This latest interruption would likely be the final one, as she was due to meet with the Russians shortly.

"This is Will Harper, from Five," Margot continued. "He says he's going to be with us for the next few days."

Ruth nodded; this was the agent who would be dogging her steps today, and she had been expecting him. "You must be the day shift, then," she said, rising from her chair and offering him her hand. They shook briefly, and then the young man spoke.

"You won't even know I'm here, Miss Evershed," he assured her. Ruth took a moment to study him; he was tall and lean, but there was muscle beneath that neat suit. He was clean-cut, with a strong jaw and soft brown eyes, of an age with Margot. Entirely too young, Ruth thought, to carry the responsibility for her life upon his shoulders. But then all the agents that came rushing out of Thames House these days seemed too young to her eyes; she supposed that was an inevitable consequence of aging. Around her everyone seemed to grow younger, while she herself only grew sadder.

"We have a light day," she told him. "I'll be here most of the morning, and then we'll head over to Vauxhall this afternoon. Not much to worry about."

Ruth wasn't entirely sure why she was trying to reassure him; perhaps, she thought as she resumed her seat, she was trying to reassure herself. She had not forgotten that someone had tried to kill her the night before, but surely the assailant wouldn't be foolish enough to try to attack her again at the Home Office or at Six, in heavily populated areas full to bursting with security and trained personnel. Would they?

"Still, though," Will told her, "I'll be watching. I'll be just outside the door, if you need anything."

And with that he gave her a little nod, and slipped away, leaving Ruth alone with a still-fuming Margot.

"Everything all right?" she asked the girl, sparing a brief glance at her computer to check the time. She would need to leave soon, it was nearly 8:00.

"I don't like this," the girl told her seriously. "He was asking me all sorts of questions-"

"That's his job, Margot," Ruth cut in gently. "Did he tell you what happened?"

Margot nodded. "It's just terrible. You must be so frightened."

Margot's eyes were wide and scared, but Ruth just smiled at her sadly. This was not the first time that Ruth's life had been in peril, and though she was afraid, the truth was she had been afraid for years. This danger was a bit more immediate than what she was used to, to be sure, but she had long ago learned how to carry on in the face of terror. Margot didn't know that, of course, couldn't know all that Ruth had endured; no word had passed between them, as regarded Ruth's previous position. Ruth was touched by the girl's concern, and her tenacious defense of Ruth's privacy, and she once more offered reassurance.

"It'll be all right," she said. "We're looking into it, and Harry and I have both been given security details for the foreseeable future. It's nothing to worry about."

"Did someone attack Sir Harry, too?" Margot asked, her face registering her shock, and Ruth could have kicked herself for having said too much. Will must have been rather discrete, then, in speaking to Margot, and Ruth had gone and outed herself without even realizing what she'd done.

"It'll be all right," she said, refusing to answer the question, hating the blush that stained her cheeks. She rose from her chair and gathered her files, preparing to depart for her meeting. Though Margot was obviously intrigued by Ruth's response she did not push for more, and instead fell into step behind her as Ruth made her way towards the meeting room. Quiet as a shadow Will followed in their wake, his gaze alert and wary, his presence a balm to Ruth's weary soul. _Let someone else do the watching, for once,_ she thought.

"I'll be in with you today," Margot said as they walked. "And Lillian will be there for the HS. Frank Holland will represent Six, and he's bringing an aide as well. And then there's Sir Harry, but he never brings any staff with him."

That wasn't entirely true, Ruth mused as she walked along. She herself had accompanied Harry to more than one such meeting, in the past, and she had never thought it odd until this very moment. Every other Section Head had a PA, to manage the calendar and serve as the office gatekeeper, but Harry had never even so much as entertained the notion of hiring one for himself. He preferred to handle his own business, and when he needed an extra set of hands, it was always Ruth he called upon for help. Who would it be now? she wondered as she walked. Who would field his calls and remind him to eat his lunch and accompany him in the corridors of power? Those tasks weren't exactly within the Senior Intelligence Analyst's remit, Ruth knew, but she had always jumped in to help him without question. Would her replacement take up those responsibilities as well? She felt a strange, unwelcome twinge of jealousy at the thought. Harry was _hers._

In more ways than one, though, she reminded herself with a little smile. She might not be working beside him every day, but she could sleep beside him now, and having sampled both positions, she knew which she preferred.

As they entered the meeting room Will took up his post by the door and Margot slipped off to sit unobtrusively in the corner beside Lillian, the HS's PA and a young man Ruth did not recognize, who must have been the aide from Six. Frank Holland was already present, sitting alone at the table while the HS stood off to one side, chatting amiably with the Russians.

"Ruth," Towers called in a booming voice, abandoning the Russians at once and crossing the room to greet her. "Terrible business," he said in a hoarse, rather pitiful attempt at a whisper. "Are you all right?"

His gaze flickered over her face, taking in the myriad little cuts that scored her skin, softened somewhat by a heavy layer of makeup but visible still at this close range.

"Fine," she answered, taken aback by his obvious, genuine concern. His eyes were warm and kind, and he gave a sad smile at her answer, as if he did not believe her for a second. As far as politicians went, William Towers was a strange one in that he seemed to be possessed of a level of humanity Ruth had never before encountered in a man of his position. His predecessor had tried to have Harry and his entire team murdered before joining a covert conspiracy to destabilize the entire world, and it seemed unthinkable that such a man had been replaced by someone as bright and compassionate as William Towers. For all his empathetic glances, however, he was still ambitious, and he had a way of always getting precisely what he wanted. Ruth was still learning how he operated, how he would need to be handled, and she knew it would be some time yet before she was completely comfortable with him.

"And Harry?" Towers asked shrewdly.

Ruth had blushed enough for one morning, and so she only answered, "He's fine, as well. Should be here any moment." To his credit, Towers delicately let the subject drop, and led her over to greet the Russians without another word.

* * *

Margot shifted slightly, folding her legs demurely and trying to find a comfortable position. It was her job, in meetings such as this, to fade quietly into the background and remain unseen and unheard unless a request was made of her. There was rather a lot of running and fetching involved, with this sort of conference; the bigwigs never did seem to bring all the necessary files with them, and the aides were inevitably sent scurrying through the corridors in search of a spreadsheet or a chart left abandoned back in the office. Ruth seemed more put together than most, however, and Margot, having ascertained that her current employer was more of a listener than a doer, gathered that her role here would be more for record keeping than anything else. There would be an official transcript of the meeting, of course, but those always seemed to have a way of getting pared down, and she imagined that Ruth would want her to listen closely, so that they might go over the details later.

At the table everyone but Sir Harry was present and accounted for; Margot thought that strange, as in the past Sir Harry had always been the soul of punctuality. Pondering where he'd got off to led Margot's thoughts back to her strange conversation with Ruth in the office. Ruth had said that both she and Sir Harry - or just _Harry_ as Ruth called him, much to Margot's delight - had been afforded security. Had they been together, then, when the bullets rang out? Margot rather hoped so. Sir Harry was a very nice man, as far as she was concerned, and after he'd made the rather romantic gesture of buying that dress for Ruth's birthday, Margot hoped he'd received a just reward.

Behind her the door opened, and the man himself entered, sweeping into the room with all the broad-shouldered prowess Margot had come to expect from him. As she watched he made his way to the table, pausing for a moment to place a cup of coffee and what appeared to be a croissant on the table in front of Ruth before taking his seat and greeting the assembled notables. Margot ducked her head to hide her smile; Sir Harry was late to the meeting, apparently because he had stopped to buy breakfast for Ruth. They were not even looking at one another now, as Sir Harry engaged the HS in a quiet conversation and Ruth sipped her coffee, but even from across the room Margot could spy the little smile dancing around the corner of Ruth's mouth. It was such a small moment, but rather a sweet one, and Sir Harry rose even higher in her estimation, if such a thing were possible.


	12. Chapter 12

"Absolutely not," Harry said flatly. He could feel the eyes of the entire assemblage upon him, and though he could not see the HS's face, he fancied he could feel Towers's frown, as well. They were gathered at a round table, ostensibly to limit the "us vs them" feeling of the meeting, but even so somehow they managed to group themselves together, the Brits forming a ring on one side, the Russians facing off against them from the other. Ruth's gaze was pointed squarely at the file in front of her, but he could detect the ghost of a frown hovering around the corners of her full lips; even in profile, he could see that she plainly disagreed with his approach to the matter at hand. Frank Holland was watching him appraisingly, and the head of the Russian delegation - Anatoly Fedorov - looked outraged. Still, though, Harry held firm, unable to concede on this point.

"I believe what Sir Harry is trying to say," Towers began in a placating, almost wheedling tone of voice, but then a very strange thing happened. Ruth was sitting at Towers's right hand, and for most of the meeting she had been silent, taking notes and absorbing the proceedings with her usual lazer-like focus, but as Towers began to launch into what would no doubt be a lengthy stream of bluster, she cleared her throat delicately and caught his eye. It was smoothly done, Harry thought; Ruth knew better than to interrupt the Home Secretary directly, but it was clear she had something to say, and she was asserting her right to say it in her own subtle way.

Towers trailed off, giving her a little nod, and Ruth picked up the thread. "What Sir Harry is trying to say," she began, her gentle voice at once setting the Russians at their ease. Harry saw it, watched their shoulders relax as one, watched Fedorov's eyes soften as he listened to this slight woman who had the ear of the British Home Secretary. That was alarming, in its own way; Harry had noticed, the moment he entered, the way Fedorov's gaze had lingered on Ruth, and he liked it not one bit. Still, though, she was an old hand at smoothing ruffled feathers, and as long as Fedorov kept his hands to himself, Harry had to admit that it could be useful if he was a bit besotted with her.

"Is that we've been burned there before. The more connected our technological systems, the more open we are to a hack. If we were to create the kind of connection Mr. Fedorov is suggesting, we would leave our entire intelligence apparatus vulnerable to infiltration. One attack could grant hackers access to all of the data for both of our combined countries. It's better to maintain separate systems, and use secure means for sharing data."

She was right, of course; only a few months before they had tried to install a unified system for themselves and the Americans, with disastrous results. That was precisely the point Harry wanted to make, but as ever she had gone about it in a much less antagonistic way, and the response she garnered from the Russians was significantly more understanding. Fedorov was like a dog with a bone, however, and he continued to press for more.

"Such as allowing an FSB presence on relevant operations?" he asked, leaning towards her. He had clearly identified her as someone who would listen, someone who wielded power, and it was Ruth he focused on now, rather than the men who flanked her on the British side of the table. Towers was all bluster, Harry was downright hostile, and Frank Holland had been all but mute throughout their conversations. Yes, it was Ruth Fedorov was interested in, but Harry, who knew her so very well, recognized the flaw in the man's plan. She would listen, but she would rather burn Thames House down than see a regular FSB presence there. It was a strange experience for Harry, watching Ruth at work outside the realm of his control, trying to see her as others did; how must she appear to them? he asked himself. Demurely dressed, soft-spoken, pretty but not heart-stoppingly so, plainly intelligent. What would the Russians assume about her, Harry wondered, based on those details, not knowing her history? Yes, it was strange, watching her assume this responsibility, but not altogether unwelcome; he had always been fiercely proud of her, and with each word she spoke she demonstrated that she deserved every bit of his regard.

"We already liaise with FSB on pertinent operations," she said. "But we have found that actual involvement from agents of foreign governments in our affairs does not always go according to plan."

"You are talking about the incident with the Paroxocybin, a few months ago?" Fedorov sneered, and Towers shifted uncomfortably. It was clear that the conversation had passed onto details with which he was unfamiliar, but Ruth held her own against the Russian, and Harry felt full to bursting with delight at her performance.

"I am. Perhaps what we need, instead of further involvement, is more open involvement. Bloodshed could have been avoided, in that instance, if the FSB had been more clear about their intentions."

"You are asking us to trust one another," Fedorov said disbelievingly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. On either side of him his compatriots made soft sounds of dissent, but Ruth held her ground, and Harry loved her for it.

"This entire arrangement must be based on trust, Mr. Fedorov," Ruth said quietly. "There can be no open sharing of information without trust. It's true, we would like access to your intelligence, but you must understand our reticence. You cannot deny that FSB activities on foreign soil of late have been aimed more at causing unrest than in uniting to fight a common enemy. We cannot simply hand over our data without also receiving something in turn."

The look Fedorov gave Ruth now was a calculating one, and it would seem that Harry was not the only one to notice it. Towers grunted and leaned forward, smoothly bringing that particular topic to a close.

"I think that's a good place to stop, for today," he said. "I think we've both laid out our expectations. We'll break for lunch, and then Mr. Fedorov and I will reconvene for our afternoon meeting with the Prime Minister."

Across the table Fedorov nodded, and they all ponderously rose to their feet to the sound of creaking chairs and shuffling papers. Harry hung back, watching as Fedorov crossed the room to speak quietly to Ruth, his lackeys hovering behind him like anxious dogs.

"I can see why you kept her around so long," a low voice murmured just behind Harry's shoulder; he spun and found himself face-to-face with Frank Holland, CMG, Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. Frank was a few years older than Harry, but harder, somehow, leaner and with a hungry look about him. He had served well and faithfully in a variety of postings, and overall Harry quite respected the man. He had no choice, really, seeing as Holland outranked him in the general pecking order, but they had worked together enough over the years to establish a generally positive rapport. The observation Frank had just made, however, left him feeling ill at ease.

"She's a fine agent," Harry agreed as nonchalantly as he could.

Frank flashed a sharp, toothy grin at him, but did not pursue that avenue any further, choosing instead to say, "Tell me, Harry, why are you here, instead of the DG? Not that I'm not pleased to see you, I'd rather have my toenails removed than spend all morning in a room with that pompous windbag."

Harry grunted noncommittally; privately, he rather agreed with that sentiment, but he knew better than to disparage his boss to the Chief of the SIS. "It was decided that since I'm more involved with operational decisions I would be able to offer more insight into what matters we could or could not feasibly compromise on."

"You mean the DG decided that if this goes tits up he wants you to take all the blame," Frank observed shrewdly.

Harry very nearly nodded, but caught himself in time. They might be on good terms, Harry and Frank, but they were by no means friends, and Harry could not afford his weaknesses to become common knowledge. The truth, however, was that Frank had hit the nail squarely on the head. Everywhere Harry turned he found his allies scrambling in their haste to distance themselves from him in the wake of Albany. It would take time to regain the trust and the respect that he had enjoyed for so long, but he was determined to prove them all wrong. Starting with this bloody international cooperation agreement.

"He trusts my judgement," Harry said.

Frank just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before making his exit, his aide following along silently in his wake.

The Russians had also departed, while Harry had been otherwise engaged, leaving Ruth and Towers alone with their PAs. Across the room Harry caught Margot's eye, and on impulse, he winked at her. It was not the sort of thing he ordinarily did, but when the girl grinned and ducked her head to hide her crimson blush, he decided it was the right decision. He needed her onside, needed her loyalty as well as her silence, and he knew the quickest way to buy them both was to be kind to her. She had been accommodating, when it came to arranging the purchase of Ruth's dress, and yet no word had spread of the event, which led Harry to believe that Margot was firmly in his pocket. And besides, he reasoned, it was so out of character for him that no one would believe her anyway, if she told them about the wink.

"Ah, Harry," Towers said, rounding on him disapprovingly. "In future, it might behoove you to be more cooperative in these meetings."

Behind Towers's shoulder Harry caught Ruth's gaze; she didn't quite roll her eyes, but she came very close.

"I will take that under advisement, Home Secretary," Harry said coolly.

Towers just sighed, like a father faced with a frustrating teenager. "Since you're here, why don't you come back to my office? There's a matter I need to discuss with you."

Now that was strange; Harry was under orders to liaise with Ruth directly, and yet here the HS was requesting a private meeting. He nodded his assent and followed Towers from the room, aware all the while of the weight of Ruth's gaze upon his back. Before Towers had made his offer, Harry had been rather hoping to steal a moment in private with Ruth, but it would seem that the cards were stacked against him today. No matter; he would see her again soon enough, as they were both planning to return to her flat that evening, and the thought of holding her once more within the circle of his arms warmed him through and through, doing wonders for his sour disposition.

* * *

"Take a seat, Harry," Towers said, indicating the chair across from his desk. Towers sank into his own chair with a grunt, clasping his hands together atop the generous swell of his stomach. Not for the first time, Harry felt rather like a chastised student, sitting in the Head Teacher's office, and that thought rankled. He was much too old for this sort of thing, and in that moment he cursed John Bateman and all the chaos he had caused once more, cursed the loss of his standing and the events that had nearly ripped Ruth away from him for good. He was certain he'd made the right decision, and he would do it again in a heartbeat, but the bitter taste the Albany affair left in his mouth lingered, even now, two long months later.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at?" Towers demanded once Harry was settled. Harry rather got the feeling that Towers had been waiting all morning to ask that question.

"Home Secretary-"

"First you moon over her like a lovesick teenager at the gala, and then someone takes a shot at her in your kitchen, and then you spend the night in her flat and bring her bloody breakfast to a conference on international intelligence? Are you trying to get yourself sacked?"

That wasn't quite what Harry had expected to receive a bollocking for; he was prepared to defend the tone he'd taken with the Russians, but he was not prepared to defend his personal life to the bloody Home Secretary.

"Home Secretary -"

"Everyone knows, Harry," Towers sighed. "Everyone bloody knows. It's obvious how you feel about her. But you must think about how your actions affect her. Ruth must be seen to speak with my voice, she must be respected, and yet her connection to you undermines all the good work she's doing."

Harry thought that was rather rich, given that it was only Ruth's third day on the job, but he bit his tongue. "Anyone who knows Ruth-"

"Knows that she speaks for _you_ , Harry, not for me. I offered her this position because she's the most qualified candidate I've come across, but don't think for one moment I won't bring in someone else if her personal life gets in the way of her ability to do her job."

Harry took a slow, deep breath, trying to dispel the haze of red that clouded his vision, trying to unclench his hands which had promptly curled themselves into fists at Towers's words. This was his greatest fear, realized, that his own actions had forever tainted Ruth within the intelligence community, and he was furious at the implications of Towers's dire pronouncement. Ruth had worked so hard, he knew, had spent more time on the Grid than any other agent during her eight year tenure, had learned so much and lost so much and grown into one of the finest officers he had ever worked with - even if her field skills weren't quite up to par. He could think of no one more competent, more intelligent, more capable than Ruth, and the thought that she might somehow suffer because of him rankled.

"You must not know Ruth very well, Home Secretary, if you doubt her ability to separate the personal from the professional. There's no branch of our intelligence community she has not worked with in the past, and she is universally respected. You do her a disservice-"

Towers raised a hand, asking for quiet. "She meets with Holland this afternoon, and we're back with the Russians tomorrow," he said. "I am confident that she can hold up her end, but for God's sake, Harry, a little professional distance wouldn't go amiss."

On that point at least they could agree; Harry knew it was foolish, to bring her the croissant in full view of all and sundry, but she had already left her office by the time he arrived, and he had made her a promise. And though they had not spoken about it, he knew that she was grateful for it, had seen the color rise in her cheeks and the smile she could not hide, and for one mad moment that smile had meant more to him than his professional reputation. He would need to curb his impulses, in the future, would need to allow her room to grow in her new position, to be seen as her own person, but he had been blinded by his own joy at having found himself in her bed at long last.

"I can do that," Harry allowed.

Towers grunted. "Do you have any idea who tried to kill you?" he asked, moving on to an even less appealing subject.

Harry had not yet checked in with the Grid, but given that no one had tried to contact him during the long hours of the night or the interminable meeting with the Russians, he could only assume that they were no closer to finding his mystery assailant. Thoughts of the attack had not been far from his mind, however, and he was itching to get to back to work.

"We're following a few promising leads," he hedged, not wanting Towers to know how very little they had to go on at present.

"Find them soon, won't you, Harry?" Towers asked dryly. "I need you and Ruth alive and in one piece, if possible." Towers shifted in his chair, and turned his attention to the mountain of paperwork in front of him.

Sensing he had been dismissed, Harry rose from his chair. "We're in agreement on that," he said, and then departed, his thoughts whirling through his mind at a mile a minute. He made his way back to Thames House on foot, relishing the chance to walk for a bit, hoping the fresh air might clear his head, mindful all the while of his security detail following at a discrete distance. It was too bloody much, somehow, the attack in his home and the Russians and Ruth and Towers's warning; _when it rains it pours,_ Harry thought, wondering if there might be some connection between all of it, some reason why he found himself beset on so many fronts all at once. It was an alarming prospect.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: This may be my last chapter for the next week or two, as I'm flying out to London first thing on Wednesday morning! I will try to get another one in before I go, but I can't make any promises. I'll have something for you as soon as I get back (and get over the jetlag).**

* * *

"Miss Evershed," Frank Holland greeted her, ushering her into his office and directing her towards a chair while Will took up his station outside and Holland shut the door smartly in his face. Though Ruth had never before had the opportunity to speak to the man directly, she had formed an opinion of Frank Holland long ago, having served as Harry's preferred liaison with Six many times over the years. Organization and infiltration, that had always been her remit, quiet work behind the scenes while the field agents raced through the city streets in flash cars, cheating death at every turn. Frank Holland had spent most of his career in the field, primarily in the Middle East; at the moment his sharp blue eyes were watching her out of a weather-beaten face, inexplicably tanned even now, when injury had relegated him to a desk and he had spent the last three years running things at Vauxhall. He was clever, and cunning, but not uncooperative, as his predecessor had been. He saw Five and Six as allies, rather than rivals, and Ruth's attitude to him had warmed because of it. She knew she could not trust him - she had learned long ago to trust no one save Harry - but she thought he would be a fine man to have in her corner, and she intended to use this meeting to establish a good working relationship with him.

"It's nice to finally meet you in person," Holland said as he took up his post behind his desk. A flash of discomfort danced across his face as he sank into his chair, quickly masked, but Ruth picked up on it nonetheless; she had seen much the same expression on Harry's face, a time or two, when his knee or his shoulder pained him, and she recognized it at once. So Holland's knee still bothered him; Ruth filed that information away for later.

"Your reputation precedes you, of course," Holland continued.

Ruth stirred in her chair, trying to hide her unease as she straightened her back and crossed her legs delicately.

"All good things, I hope," she murmured.

Holland gave her a speculative glance, but chose not to answer her unspoken question, saying instead, "I wanted to congratulate you, on your fine performance this morning."

This was all a game to him, she realized. Every move he made was intended to unsettle her; he had been welcoming, but quick to position himself behind his desk, in the seat of power. He had made a veiled reference to the tragedy of her life, and then followed it up with praise. No doubt he was the sort of man who believed that unpredictability was a virtue, that everyone he met was an opponent to be weighed and measured and categorized, each piece of information gleaned stored away for later use. Whether he realized that Ruth was an old hand at that particular game remained to be seen.

"You were rather quiet, during the meeting," she said, keeping her voice deliberately soft, trying to disguise her own inquisitiveness. Holland had come along to the meeting to represent Six's interest in the intelligence sharing deal, but he had not spoken a word to the Russian delegation, and though Ruth fancied she knew the cause of his silence, she wanted to see if he would confide in her. Holland was not the only one capable of testing his colleagues.

He flashed her a tight smile. "I find that during the preliminary stages of such negotiations, it's best just to listen," he said dismissively. "Tell me, Miss Evershed, what are your thoughts on this proposed partnership?"

The inflection of his voice as he spoke the word _partnership_ told Ruth everything she needed to know about his opinion on the matter. Feeling somewhat victorious she nonetheless chose to tread carefully with him.

"It's an important step in implementing the agenda the PM and the HS have set forth for the Security Services," she hedged.

"And you think that's a load of bollocks," Holland responded shrewdly.

 _He's quick, I'll give him that,_ Ruth thought. "I was hired to do a job, Mr. Holland," she said. "I am there to advise the Home Secretary, and provide him with the pertinent information he needs to make the best decision for the country."

"The best thing Towers could do for all of us would be to round up every last Russian operative currently active in this country and ship them all back to Mother Russia," Holland grumbled. "I'm sure Harry agrees."

"I'm sure he does," Ruth demurred. At the mention of Harry's name Ruth reflexively lowered her gaze, unsettled by the way Holland was watching her; she regretted it the moment her eyes fixed upon her hands, clasped together in her lap, knowing that she had just shown weakness in the face of a man who wielded a great deal of power, whose good opinion of her was vital to her work. When she accepted this position Ruth had known that her relationship with Harry, in whatever form, would be a topic of conversation, and she had tried to prepare for it, but she still detested any conversation about her personal life, and she was still somewhat perturbed by the fact that her feelings for Harry were apparently common knowledge. The momentary break in eye contact between herself and Holland had spoken louder than any words, she knew, had revealed that Harry was a sensitive subject for her, and she was kicking herself for her momentary lapse in poise. She looked up again quickly, and found Holland watching her with the ghost of a smile hovering around the corners of his mouth.

"Harry's a lucky bastard," Holland told her. For a moment it seemed he was casting an appreciative eye over her figure, but Ruth rather thought it was just for show; Holland was an infamous bachelor, doubly infamous for his apparent disinterest in the opposite sex, and their conversation so far had been designed to put Ruth on the back foot. His momentary leering was likely an act designed to goad in her in much the same way as his comment about her reputation, and Ruth was determined to show him that she was made of tougher stuff than he thought.

"I'm sure he is," she answered primly.

Holland laughed aloud at those words. "Miss Evershed, I think we're going to get on just fine," he told her grandly. "Now, I believe Towers has been asking questions about our operations in Syria. I'll brief you now, and maybe you can convince him to leave me alone and let me do my job in peace."

* * *

"What have we got?" Harry barked at his assembled team. The long walk had done wonders to clear his head; he was determined to talk to Ruth, to show a bit more restraint at the office, and get back to work. Someone had tried to kill them both the night before, and finding that someone became his priority, while all the rest faded into background noise.

"We determined the location of the shooter," Callum began. Using a small remote he activated the screen on the far wall of the meeting room, bringing up a rough schematic of Harry's street. "The shots were fired from a vehicle positioned just outside your home." As he spoke the schematic began to move, a small car appearing on the street and a thin red line showing the trajectory of the bullets from the car to Harry's kitchen window. "We spoke with your neighbors, but it was dark, and we couldn't get a clear description of the vehicle; all we know is it was a dark sedan. We've got techies going over CCTV footage, but there are no cameras on your street, so that's just a shot in the dark."

"Do we have any information on the weapon?"

Tariq took up the thread here. "Fve-five-six 45 caliber rounds, and lots of them," he declared. "We're studying them now to determine what sort of weapon, but given the shooter's location and the relative accuracy of the shots - as well as the number of them - we're likely looking for an M-16."

"Any chance of taking fingerprints from the bullets?" Harry asked half-heartedly, but Tariq just shook his head.

"While the techies are studying the ammo," Dimitri piped in, "we've been going over the transcripts from the tribunal - the ones we're allowed to see, at least. Erin thought it might be a good idea to isolate the incidents that Ruth was involved in, seeing as you both may have been targets."

 _Did she now?_ Harry thought, his eyes lingering on his Section Chief. Erin had been foisted on him by the powers that be, and she was every inch the ambitious climber. Fastidious about rules and with a reputation for ruthless professionalism, he had no doubt that she had her eyes on his chair. Likewise, he did not doubt that she was harboring all sort of opinions about him, based on discovering Ruth in his home and reading over the transcripts that contained the minute details of his every failure during his long tenure with Five. She had been quiet, so far, and Harry couldn't help feeling slightly uneasy, as he listened to Dimitri relay her suspicions for her. Dimitri had been on staff for over a year now, and his loyalty should have belonged to Harry, and Harry alone; even so here he was, delivering Erin's messages. Harry dearly hoped that a pretty face had not come between him and one of his agents, the doubts would not leave him be. He could ill afford another betrayal at this juncture.

"Anything of interest?" he asked, directing the question to Erin, delivering it almost as a challenge. He did not know her, had not chosen her for his team, and he did not trust her as far as he could throw her.

Erin leaned forward, her gaze sharp and focused, intent on Harry. It was clear she had heard his challenge, and was determined to show him that she had earned her position. She was more than welcome to try, as far as Harry was concerned.

"What can you tell us about Cotterdam?" she asked.

* * *

"Thank you, Will," Ruth said as he held the door for her, ushering her once more into the relative safety of the Home Office. Those personnel who had earned the dubious honor of being assigned security details were instructed to ignore them, to go about their daily lives as if nothing had changed, but Ruth found that she could not pretend she didn't see the dark-haired young man who dogged her steps. He was solicitous and quiet, serious and constantly on the alert, but she could not deny his humanity, could not deny that they would need to trust one another, and so she was determined to be kind to him.

"You're very welcome, Miss Evershed," he replied as they made their way down the hall. He walked a step or two behind her, his eyes constantly roving, assessing, and Ruth left him to it, knowing that he had a job to do, as did she.

The afternoon's meeting with Frank Holland had been an enlightening one; after their initial sparring session the conversation had flowed smoothly, and she carried with her a ream of notes to be condensed into a brief report to the Home Secretary once she returned to her office. She had entered the meeting with two goals - to befriend Holland and to pick his brain about the powder keg set to erupt in Syria - and she felt that she had successfully completed both of her objectives. The report would take perhaps an hour to assemble, and then she could make her way home once more. Ruth was rather looking forward to that, to releasing the tension she carried with her throughout the day and relaxing as much as she could, knowing that whoever had tried to shoot her was still at large. At least Harry would be there with her.

No one was watching, and so she allowed herself a little smile, at the thought of spending another night with Harry. Staying in her flat together held its own inherent dangers, she knew, but they were under round-the-clock protection, and she always felt safer when Harry was near. Though she did not know when she could expect him her mind ran away with her, conjuring images of another quiet dinner, of cuddling beneath his arm on the sofa, of quiet conversation and perhaps a few more of his delicious kisses. It was strange, that in a matter of days she had gone from thinking how much she missed him, how much she had wronged him, to thinking of the softness of his lips and the strength of his hands. Strange that the desire she had always harbored for him was not a forbidden fantasy, now, but a pleasure to be indulged in whenever the fancy took her. It was strange, but she was fast becoming accustomed to the change in her circumstances.

To reach her own office she had to pass by the Home Secretary's lair, and as she approached his door she found the man himself, deep in conversation with a stranger.

"Ruth!" Towers called in a booming voice when he caught sight of her. Though he seemed in a jovial mood Ruth still found the way he called her name distasteful; she felt rather like a dog being called to heel.

"Good afternoon, Home Secretary," she said in as pleasant a tone as she could manage, making her way over towards him as ordered. His guest glanced at her curiously, and she returned the gesture; he wore an expensive, well-tailored suit, but the body beneath that suit was lean and hard, his hair close-cropped in a vaguely militaristic style. Not a politician, she gathered, but someone altogether more dangerous.

"This is Paul Hadley, from Special Branch," Towers introduced them.

Hadley extended his hand and Ruth took it, shaking it politely and pondering the name and the fact that she'd never heard it before.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, wondering if those words were true, wondering what Special Branch was doing meeting with the Home Secretary directly, rather than through his designated liaison.

"The pleasure's all mine, Miss Evershed," Hadley responded in a smooth voice that Ruth liked not one bit. "It's not every day I get to meet a ghost." Ruth stiffened in surprise, her gut clenching with apprehension. It always disturbed her, when someone referred to her death and subsequent resurrection, reopened the wounds left by her exile and her blood-soaked return. "Congratulations on your miraculous recovery," Hadley continued without missing a beat.

Towers was glancing back and forth between the pair of them, his brow furrowed in confusion, but Hadley just offered a smile dripping with false sincerity, bidding Towers a curt farewell before turning on his heel and departing. And through it all Ruth held her breath, waiting for a blow that never came, a snide remark or a knowing look from Hadley. The man had clearly intended to unsettle her, but she could not fathom _why,_ and that was more unsettling still.

"Why do I feel as if I'm missing something?" Towers asked ruefully, his eyes on Hadley's retreating back.

"It's nothing," Ruth told him, trying and failing to sound nonchalant about the whole thing, as if strangers made veiled references to her death all the time. Towers was having none of it; his eyes grew dark, and though Ruth had only been working for him for a very short while, she recognized the signs of his displeasure. He was her employer, and the bloody Home Secretary, and she knew that if he asked her a question, she would have to answer it.

"Perhaps we could discuss this in your office?" she suggested. Towers nodded and stepped aside to allow her entry, not even sparing a glance at Will, who had watched the whole scene from two feet away, unspeaking, unnoticed.

 _There's no need to tell him everything,_ Ruth thought as she took her customary seat across from Towers's desk. Against all regulations she had reviewed her own file prior to accepting the Home Secretary's offer of a job, wanting to know precisely what information was available to him before she entered his employ, wanting to establish the parameters of conversation allowed them. What she had discovered, upon reading over the thick tome that told the story of her professional career, was that the Cotterdam incident had been neatly cleaned up; there was a reference to it, an explanation of her role in uncovering the plot, but there was no mention made of her death. Some lame excuse was given, to explain away the two long years she'd spent in exile; the words _leave of absence_ had been used. There was likewise a brief explanation of the incident in the warehouse with Mani, but no clinical assessment could accurately capture the trauma of that day, the damage that had been done to her soul. That was all the information Towers had, regarding her history, and it was not enough.

She took a deep breath and prepared herself to speak, to carefully lay out the truth of her exile, and likewise carefully hide the truth of her heart. Even as she did she wondered at her brief exchange with the man from Special Branch in the corridor; whatever Hadley's reasons for mentioning it, Ruth couldn't help but worry that her past had come back to her haunt her.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: I'm back! This is just a quick chapter to get us back in the swing of things. Regular updates should resume now.**

* * *

 _Cotterdam._

Throughout the long working day, that word had echoed in the vaults of Harry's mind like some ghastly tolling bell, badgering him incessantly at every turn, denying him even a single moment's peace.

 _Cotterdam._

He had answered Erin's question, spoken in a soft voice of the fire and the treacherous plot, and though he acknowledged the role that Ruth had played, in bringing down Mace and his cronies, he had likewise rather delicately glossed over the sacrifice that she had made to ensure his freedom. It was enough for them to know that she was involved in the operation; he did not feel they were entitled to the details of the personal tragedy that had accompanied it. His Ruth was a private person, and all mention of her death and subsequent resurrection had been carefully wiped from her record; with Lucas's death, there was no one who remained to tell the tale of her exile and bloody return save for Ruth and Harry, and he felt they deserved to keep this one secret for themselves.

Erin had known he was holding back, though. He could see it in her eyes, flashing at him across the meeting table, the subtle frown hovering at the corners of her lips. No doubt she thought it suspicious, was even now asking herself if perhaps there was something in the sordid mess of the Cotterdam affair that could bring Harry down and elevate Erin to the lofty position she had so clearly set her eyes on. Nothing could be further from the truth; the record they had uncovered of the meeting, that damning microfilm containing information about every agent who had been present and involved in the scandal, had proved useful indeed, and Harry had worked his way down the list, deftly removing every single one of those powerful men from their positions.

With the exception of one. Try though he might. Harry had never been able to identify the representative from Special Branch. Somewhere out there was one final loose end, one last person who might conceivably hold a grudge against Ruth for what she'd done all those many years before, but in truth the identity of that final perpetrator had ceased to matter to Harry long ago. The world spun on, new dangers surfaced, and he had truly believed that the matter of the Cotterdam affair had been laid to rest.

Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Erin hadn't just pulled that word out of a hat; she had pointed out, rightly so, that of all the incidents discussed in the transcripts of the tribunal, Cotterdam was the only one that involved Ruth as well as Harry, and that the status of those men involved seemed to indicate that they would all be capable both of holding a grudge, and orchestrating revenge. While Harry saw the sense in this theory, he could not fathom why it should matter _now;_ Ruth had been back in the land of the living for more than two years, and there had been a million opportunities, in all the years since the prison fire, for someone to exact their revenge. What had changed, that this ghost should come to haunt them now?

He reminded himself firmly to remain open to other possibilities. Cotterdam was not the only bit of dirty laundry aired during the tribunal, and Harry felt himself beset by foes on every side. It had been a long and torturous process, delving into his long and sometimes shady career, and he had faced each day with a heavy sense of dread, wondering what secrets would be unearthed next. To his great relief, he had been spared from the worst of it; no word had reached his inquisitors, it would seem, of the bullet that had killed Kachimov or the poison that had ended Nicholas Blake. The tribunal detested him enough as it was; he had counted himself lucky, that they had not learned the truth of him, that he was a man who had killed, more than once.

As the hours passed with guilt and fear nipping at him like ravaging dogs, Harry struggled to focus on his work, struggled to ignore the little voice in the back of his mind, asking, not what would the tribunal think, but what would _Ruth_ think of him, should she ever learn just how low he had stooped in his quest for revenge. She was so _good_ , his Ruth, so kind, so gentle, and she had always stood firm with a strength of conviction that he envied, this man who was so often capable of putting aside his own morality in the name of doing his job. Would she understand why he had done it, would she be proud, to know that he had vindicated the deaths of Adam and Ros, two people she had counted friends? Or would she run from him in horror, reminding him that she had sacrificed her very life for the principles of civilization to which she clung, and that he had fallen short of the mark she had set for him? It was an unsettling question, particularly in light of the glorious evening they had spent together the night before. He finally had everything he longed for just within his grasp, but he could not shake the sense that all of it - that _Ruth_ \- was about to snatched from him forever.

* * *

To say that Ruth's conversation with the HS had been an uncomfortable one would be to make a gross understatement. She had explained to him in a quiet voice how Oliver Mace had set into motion the events that led to the Cotterdam fire and the extradition of the seven terrorists, and explained too her own role in uncovering the plot, the run-in with Mick Maudsley and everything that came after. She had not spoken of Harry, watching her with gentle eyes in her kitchen, holding her hand as he drove her home from Thames House, kissing her so passionately on a cold morning by the riverside as their whole world came crumbling down around them. Those details, so near and dear to her heart, belonged to no one else save she and Harry, and she would not share them with the HS now.

Towers had been suitably impressed, to learn that she was a proper spy, after all, that she had done the snooping and the running and the sacrificing for queen and country bit just as well as any field agent. He had been rather obviously intrigued by her veiled references to her return, and when her tale was through, he expressed some surprise, at the way Paul Hadley, the representative from Special Branch, had so casually referenced her death and resurrection. Ruth had demurred, had tried to act as if she were completely untroubled by that encounter, but the truth was she could not stop the feverish twistings and turnings of her mind that Hadley had set into motion. It had been years, since anyone had made mention of her exile; even Harry himself had not so much as alluded to it in the interim, and she could not fathom why Hadley had brought it up now.

As soon as Towers dismissed her Ruth rushed back to her office, compiling her report on Syria as quickly as she could before tidying up her desk for the evening and bidding Margot a fond - if very brief - farewell. Ruth was anxious to get home, to pour herself a glass of wine and perhaps even draw a bath, to relax and try to soothe the ache that worry had caused in her stomach. More than anything, she was anxious to see Harry again, but she knew that he would come to her in his own time, when he could, when he was ready. He was a busy man, this love of hers, and she knew that she would have to be patient. Always before his long working hours had been no cause of concern for her, for as long as he was on the Grid she would be as well, in proximity to one another even when they were working on separate tasks. She had always drawn comfort from knowing that he was close to hand, and for the first time she was confronted by just how much their circumstances had changed. Over the course of their eight year acquaintance - with the exception of the sun-drenched days she'd spent in Cyprus - Ruth had always known where he was, what he was doing, what occupied his thoughts. Now, though, she had no notion of how he'd spent his day, if there was danger afoot, if he would be able to join her for supper, and that not knowing troubled her a great deal. She did not reach for her mobile, did not ring him, for she was determined not to nag him, no matter how much she longed to reassure herself that he was well. He would come to her, her Harry, as soon as he could, and she had no choice but to trust in his love for her.

If Will noticed her melancholy mood as he deftly drove her through the streets of London he made no mention of it; the young man was quiet and serious, as he had been throughout the day, and Ruth was grateful for his courteous silence. Her own thoughts were loud enough.

As soon as Will ushered her into her home Ruth made her way into the kitchen; she heard the quiet sound of the front door closing and locking as Will departed, and sighed, shuffling from one foot to the other to remove her boots while Felicity wound herself round and round Ruth's ankles, mewling up at her pitifully. As soon as Ruth was standing in her stocking feet she gathered the little cat into her arms, feeling the tension draining from her as the cool stillness of her home and the gentle sound of Felicity's purring calmed her, soothed her battered heart. Cotterdam was in the past, that grief, that pain, that fear behind her now, though she still had nightmares, sometimes, about the terrible way George had died.

 _Don't think about that now,_ she chided herself.

Giving Felicity one last little cuddle Ruth set her on the floor, and poured herself a glass of wine, thinking about her past, about love, about loss, about grief, about the sound of Harry's harsh breaths in her ear as he had sheltered her beneath him while bullets rained down all around them. He had not hesitated to protect her; he never had. Almost from the moment they first met, Harry had been there to guide her, to hold her up when she was flagging, to place himself between her and whatever danger they faced at any given moment. That was just the sort of man he was, though Ruth was finally able to admit, after eight long years and one beautiful night together, that he had always treated her differently, reverently, as if she were precious to him. The very thought flooded her with warmth, with the expectation of seeing him again, of folding herself once more into his arms, and so Ruth carried her glass of wine up the stairs, intent on a bath to clear her head and pass the time until Harry arrived.

* * *

When Harry finally arrived at Ruth's home he was dog-tired and irritable and itching to see her again. He dismissed his minder curtly and all but slammed the door in the poor lad's face before taking one deep, cleansing breath, inhaling the soft, subtle scent of Ruth that permeated every inch of this space and immediately set his heart at ease. He carefully removed his shoes in her foyer, and after a moment's consideration divested himself of jacket and tie as well, hanging them both on a little hook by the door before unfastening the buttons at his collar and rolling back his sleeves. In just a few short moments, he felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. The day had been a trying one, ghosts and past mistakes taunting him at every turn as his team fought through the noise to try ascertain who had attacked him, but he was here, now, home with Ruth, and given how well things had gone between them the night before, he was elated at the prospect of spending more time in her presence.

Silently he made his way down the hall, pausing in the kitchen doorway as his eyes came to rest on Ruth, watching her in silent joyous appreciation.

Ruth had - rather prudently - drawn the curtains on her kitchen windows, and she was humming softly to herself as she worked at making supper. Her back was turned to him, for which he was grateful, as it allowed him the opportunity to study her without making her uncomfortable. She wore only her pale pink dressing gown, her hair piled up on the back of her head, the ends damp and curling, her skin softly glowing in the light of the candle burning merrily on the table; he supposed she must have indulged herself in a soak in the bath upon arriving home, and he felt a surge of heat course through him, as his mind was assaulted by images of Ruth, naked and luxurious beneath the water.

It would not do, he knew, to stand there indefinitely fantasizing about running his hands over the pale skin of her thighs, not when he suspected that she would be rather ameniable to bringing such fantasies to life, should he ask. With that in mind, he cleared his throat, and when she spun on her heel, wooden spun clutched in her hands like a cudgel, he smiled at her softly.

"Hello," he said, taking a single step towards her. Though he wanted nothing more than to cross the space between them and wrap her in his arms he hesitated, uncertain as to what liberties he would be allowed to take, just now. Ruth had been receptive to him when they woke in the still hours of the morning, and again, when they dawdled on her doorstep, unwilling to part from one another, but she had always been skittish as a deer, and he feared that he would have to start this dance afresh with her each time, to set her at her ease before they were allowed the intimacy they had only so recently enjoyed.

He needn't have worried, however; as soon as Ruth realized who had come barging into her kitchen she smiled, disposed of her spoon, and made her way across the room to him.

"Hello," she murmured in response, coming to a stop only an arm's length away from him. Her eyes roved over him, taking in his disheveled appearance, and the smallest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lips, though her eyes, those brilliant, glorious eyes, remained somehow sad. "I'm so glad you're home," she said, taking one last tentative step towards him. It was all the permission he needed; Harry reached out and took her into his arms, her head nestling just beneath his chin as she buried her face in his neck, her arms wrapping tightly around his middle, clinging to him for dear life.


	15. Chapter 15

The novelty of holding Ruth in his arms wasn't wearing off. She was soft and warm, the faint scent of jasmine floating from up from her hair to flood his senses, calming his weary soul at once. The last few days were a blur of delight and trepidation, pleasure tainted by terrible fear, and Harry couldn't quite wrap his mind around it somehow, couldn't quite believe that after all this time she was finally his to hold, to cling to in the still of the night. For perhaps the first time ever she wasn't running from him, from them; it was Ruth who had somehow found the courage to confess her love to him and set this whole thing in motion, Ruth who had crossed the chasm between them tonight, who had come to him with longing in her eyes. _I'm so glad you're home,_ she'd told him; _home,_ she'd said, not _I'm so glad you're here,_ or _I'm so glad you're back._ She'd said _home,_ and he'd felt the word vibrating around his ribcage, richoteting around his battered heart. He was _home,_ for wherever she was, there he belonged.

Harry reached out and caught her chin in his hand, raising her face to study it for a moment, the little dimples in her cheeks, the bashful blush that painted her pale skin, the sorrow that lingered, just out of reach, in the depths of her moonstone eyes. Though he was not certain what had put that sadness there he was determined to banish it, to reclaim some of the ecstatic joy they had discovered in one another's arms that morning, and so he used the hand still cradling her face to draw her closer, close enough for him to bow his head and place a tender kiss against her lips.

Beneath him Ruth sighed, her whole body going slack for a moment as she gave herself over to him utterly, and he was nearly consumed with want of her, bowled over by her reaction to him, drunk on the taste of her. They needed to eat, he knew, needed to talk before they allowed themselves this luxury, but Ruth was _here_ , her lips pressed hard and fast to his own, naked save for her thin pink robe, and he could think of nothing else save her. The hours he had spent earlier in the day buried in memories of Cotterdam had been a harsh reminder of just how close he had come to losing her, and he could not give her up even for a moment, could not draw away from her when finally it seemed that they were both precisely where they needed to be. His hands traced the slope of her back, felt her curving into him, rising up onto her toes to chase his tongue with her own, and in response he kissed her more fervently, held her closer, sighed in bliss.

Their moment of abandon was not to last, however; at almost precisely the same instant his stomach let loose a hearty growl, and beneath them Felicity gave a piteous little mewl at having been so long ignored. Ruth broke away from his kiss, breathless and laughing, burying her face in his chest.

"Let's get you something to eat," she murmured, pressing a kiss against his chest just above his heart before disentangling herself from him and leading him to her table. "Sit," she told him gently, her hands on his shoulders guiding him down to a chair. Once he was seated she kissed the top of his head fondly, and then bustled away from him, Felicity following in her wake like a shadow. Her quiet, casual display of affection left him elated and somewhat bemused, and so he sat at the table, watching her faffing about with their supper, a bright, slightly daft grin plastered on his face.

"How was your day, then?" she asked him, her question accompanied by the clang of silverware and the various pans simmering on the stovetop.

Harry sighed, running his hands over his face, wishing she hadn't asked, wishing he didn't have to answer. This thing between them was so new, so unexplored, fragile as a shard of glass, and he desperately did not want to delve into the murky waters of their past, to remind her of the man who'd shared her bed, and the role Harry himself had played in that man's tragic end. Though he had been many times assured of her forgiveness he still doubted, sometimes, still wondered if perhaps there was some piece of her that would never let go of that grief. It snuck up on him sometimes, that darkness that lingered just on the edges of her eyes, that brought her low in ways he could neither comprehend nor counteract. She had seemed so genuinely happy to see him, despite whatever troubled her, and he was loathe to break the spell of their momentary peace.

But she had asked, and Harry could deny her nothing.

"Long," he answered slowly, watching the way the hem of her short robe flirted with the backs of her pale thighs, fighting down a rising tide of longing as that soft, smooth skin called out to him. "We're going over the transcripts from the tribunal, and there are a few theories, at present, but nothing concrete."

At the stovetop Ruth hummed, a sound that was both question and answer, assuring him that she was listening while also encouraging him to continue. In response Harry took a deep breath, and dove straight in.

"Erin thinks Cotterdam may be the link. Since it's the only thing we've found so far that's tied to both of us."

All at once Ruth's somewhat bumbling maneuvers ceased, her back suddenly tense and rigid, her fear palpable, even from across the room. Harry steeled himself, waiting for the hammerblow, for her to close herself off from him completely, to deny him the sparkling light of her love he had only so recently begun to enjoy.

" _Cotterdam_ ," she breathed, her voice a choked whisper, filled with wonder, filled with dread. Harry could bear it no more; at once he rose from his chair and crossed the space between them, coming to rest beside her. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and was relieved when she came to him willingly, nestling her head on his shoulder for a moment as their demons taunted them from the shadows.

"It's only a theory," he said soothingly. "We have no idea-"

"Have you ever heard of a bloke called Paul Hadley? Works with Special Branch?" Ruth whirled out of his grip, her hands shaking but determined as she turned her back on him and finished plating up their supper.

 _Special Branch,_ Harry mused, suddenly more frightened than he had been all day. In the list of the Cotterdam conspirators, the representative from Special Branch was the missing link. Could it be this Hadley Ruth had uncovered? Could it be that even now, when she was safely ensconced at the Home Office and far away from the turmoil of the Grid, _Ruth_ was the one who'd somehow fit all the pieces together? She really was a marvel, his Ruth; capable of anything, he'd always said.

"I haven't," he answered. "What about him?"

"He had a private meeting with Towers today," Ruth explained. Precariously she turned, one plate held in each trembling hand; Harry reached out and took one from her, relieving her of half her burden before their supper ended up on the floor. With his free hand he caught her easily, his palm calming to rest at the small of her back, guiding her towards the table. It was his turn to ease her into a chair, to make sure she was well before he disposed of his own plate, and went off in search of wine.

"A private meeting?" Harry asked as he dug through her refrigerator, coming up with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay; not technically white Burgundy, but close enough to do in a pinch. He poured them each a glass as he continued to voice his thoughts aloud. "You're supposed to be his liaison-"

"He had a private meeting with you this morning," Ruth pointed out. "Towers does what he likes."

At the mention of his meeting with Towers Harry stilled for a moment, overcome with dread; he had been granted a one-on-one audience with the HS, to be sure, but the purpose of that meeting was to give him a bollocking for being too open with his affections for Ruth. Such tidings would not be well-received, he knew, but likewise she would be cross, if ever she had cause to learn that he'd kept it from her. It was such a fine line to walk, between being honest and making her happy. He resolved to tell her about it later, when things between them were less raw, less uncertain than they seemed now.

"That was different," he said carefully as he made his way back to the table with the wine. "Towers wanted to talk to me about the shooting," not quite a lie, he reasoned, though that justification sat hollow and unwelcome in his gut, "not about operational matters. Why would he meet alone with Special Branch?"

"I don't know," Ruth confessed, taking a sip of her wine and dropping her gaze to her lap in that way she had when she was frightened, when she was wary. "But he said something strange to me."

Harry's heart went cold at those words. He eased himself into his chair and took a fortifying sip of wine, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"He mentioned Cotterdam, Harry."

 _And there it is,_ he thought grimly. Could it be that after all this time, his missing Special Branch agent had turned up out of the blue and announced himself to Ruth in the corridors of the Home Office? Stranger things had happened, he supposed, but if it were true, then this Hadley must be confident indeed, to show himself so readily. That confidence troubled Harry a great deal.

"Do you think-" she started to ask him, but the truth was Harry had no idea what to think, and no intention of spending the entire evening engrossed in work. His team was busy hunting down leads and there were armed agents watching over Ruth's little flat, and for perhaps the first time in his entire career, Harry was willing to admit that he could not control everything.

"I'll ring Erin, after we've eaten," Harry said, reaching out to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. "We'll look into him, Ruth. And right now, you and I are going to enjoy this meal, and forget all about it."

She gave him a skeptical look, her eyebrow raised as if to say _who are you and what have you done with my Harry,_ but he just forced a smile and tucked into his supper, determined not to let work get in the way this time. If this Hadley was involved in the shooting there was nothing Harry could do about it now; his own political capital had all but run out, and he could not simply snatch up an operative Special Branch for questioning whenever the mood suited him. He would have to tread gently, let Erin take the lead - much as he mistrusted her - and keep Ruth out of it as much as he could. He had to keep her safe. Nothing else mattered.

* * *

True to his word, Harry had refused to speak another word about Cotterdam, or the shooting, or Paul Hadley for the duration of their dinner. Though Ruth was somewhat flummoxed by his sudden desire to leave work at the office, she was grateful for it, too, grateful for the opportunity to simply speak to him without feeling as if the fate of the world hung in the balance. He could be charming, when he wanted to be, and gentle, too, and he was gentle with her now, teasing her about taking another meal with Felicity curled in her lap, peppering her with questions about the book - well _books,_ actually - that she was reading at present, relaxed for once and smiling every now and again. Though Ruth had fallen in love with a powerful, imposing man, she liked him best like this, his eyes soft and warm as he watched her across the table, his knee brushing against her own every so often, his tender voice setting her ease until she was reclining in her chair and regretfully swallowing the last of her second glass of wine.

"You look exhausted," he murmured, finally dropping his fork to the tabletop and reaching across to trace her knuckles with his thumb.

"I am," she answered. And then, because he had been so kind, because he was so lovely, because she'd been thinking about the heat of his touch all day, she straightened her shoulders and leaned across the table to playfully add, "I didn't get much sleep last night, you know." It was a stretch for her, really, to so boldly allude to what they had done in the still small hours of the morning - and again in the shower - but she was _trying_ , with all her might, to make this work, to keep him close, to make him happy.

Across from her she watched a slow, sly smile blossom across his face, the tips of his ears going slightly pink while his pupils grew dark with want, his eyes tracing shamelessly over her figure.

"I need to ring Erin," he said slowly, no doubt about to make some untoward suggestion, but Ruth cut him off.

"You do that while I take care of the dishes," she said, rising from her chair. "And then…" her voice trailed off as her courage deserted her, as she was once more overwhelmed by the shocking reality that this was _Harry,_ sitting at her table in his shirtsleeves, watching her with hungry eyes, Harry she was about to invite into her bed. It didn't seem real, somehow; there was a small, frightened part of her that worried this was all a dream, that she must surely wake to find herself cold and alone in her bed as ever. "And then we can go to bed," she finished, ducking her gaze to hide her flaming cheeks from him.

As she reached for his plate he caught her wrist in his hand, his long fingers and gnarled knuckles seeming somehow huge and undeniably masculine against her pale skin. He drew her hand to his lips and kiss her palm once, tenderly, before he released her, his honey dark eyes watching her all the while.

"Ruth," he said, very softly, "I know that perhaps this isn't the way we might have intended it -" she nearly laughed aloud, thinking that might have been the understatement of the century - "but I want you to know how glad I am to be here. How grateful I am to you, for letting me stay."

Beneath his gentle words Ruth heard the truth he could not say, and indulged the clamouring of her heart, leaning down to brush his lips with her own, just once, to let him know she understood. They had neither of them spoken the word _love_ again, not since that fateful night at the Embassy, having reached some unspoken accord to wait until the time was right, until things were settled, until they were both of them comfortable enough with the state of things between them. This was enough for now, having him here, in her home, his mouth warm and soft beneath her own, and so she savored the taste of him for a moment, her heart whispering softly _I love you_ while his own beat out its silent reply. And then she pulled away from him, determined that they should both finish their appointed tasks before making their way up the stairs, together, the way she had always wanted them to be.

* * *

It didn't take very long, in the end; while Harry spoke to a somewhat disgruntled-sounding Erin about this Paul Hadley chap with the chorus of Ruth's somewhat rowdy dishwashing to accompany him he found his thoughts wandering up the stairs, pondering all that was to come. Touching Ruth the night before had awakened his desire, that fervent need he had spent so many years fiercely denying, and he found he could ignore it no longer. There was no balm to slake his yearning save the smooth softness of Ruth's skin and the ragged sound of her cries, and even as he tried to focus on what Erin was saying he found his trousers growing tighter as anticipation coursed thick and heavy through his veins. He could only hope that once they reached her bedroom Ruth would be as ready and willing as he; he was not a brute, to force himself upon her when she was unwilling, but he had seen the longing sparkling in her eyes when she kissed him, and he felt the odds were likely in his favor.

Finally his task was done, and so he set off to find her; she was standing by the sink and drying the last plate, humming softly to herself. He smiled to see it, to see her so relaxed, where earlier in the evening she had been strung tight as a bow. They would find their way through this, he told himself as he crossed the room to stand beside her, slotting himself into place along her back as he had done that night in his kitchen, his hands coming to rest on her hips, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her robe. So long as she was by his side, he could handle anything the world chose to throw at them. Slowly he lowered his lips to her neck, and beneath him his lover sighed in bliss, and his own heart rejoiced at the sound.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: The beginning of this chapter is M rated.**

* * *

In the early morning stillness, Harry was reduced to sensation alone, operating on instinct, the frantic clamoring of his heart drowning out any wayward thoughts. He could only taste the salty tang of sweat along Ruth's shoulder as he ducked his head to kiss her skin, could only hear the trembling sound of her whimpers, somewhat muffled as she buried her face in the pillow, could only feel the overwhelming heat of her, drawing him further, deeper, urging him on. The darkness of the room at dawn was at war with the shattering brilliant light of his lover beneath him, her body transcendent and glowing brighter than any star. Harry was utterly lost, drunk on his own desperate need, riding the roiling waves of her hips, point and counterpoint, an overwhelming tide he could not hope to master.

Sensing the end was near he tried to rally, planted his hands beside her head on the pillows and raised himself up, changing the angle between them and groaning aloud at the sight that greeted him, the perfect curve of Ruth's spine, her dark hair spilling across her skin pale as moonlight, following that graceful arch down to the swell of her ass, raised up and bouncing with each potent thrust of his hips. For a moment he watched, transfixed and in awe, as he disappeared within her, felt the gentle sound of her moan vibrating up from where they were joined all the way through his chest. And in that single moment, when he was closer to Ruth than he had ever hoped to be, when his heart was singing out in joy and his body was thrumming with the promise of release, he gave thanks - though he knew not to whom - that his Ruth was prone to sleeping on her stomach and receptive to amorous advances first thing upon waking. This was a dream, he thought as he carried on, the tempo of his movements increasing as he watched Ruth's hand snake out from under her head, sliding beneath her supple body down to the place where they were joined. This was a dream beyond all his hopes and expectations, his every fantasy come to life and magnified a thousandfold. She was more beautiful, more responsive, more intuitive than he could ever have imagined, and _oh,_ but he had imagined it, had watched the swaying of her hips across the Grid for more years than he cared to count and thinking only of this, of her, of what they might be, together.

As once more he thrust within her, harder, faster, deeper than before, he felt the fluttering of her inner walls around him, as with her hand and his cock together they brought her up and over the edge; she let out one final, breathless sound of bliss, her body arching beneath his touch, and he was lost, unwilling and unable to stem the flood of love and light that washed over him. With a bone-deep groan of his own he spilled inside her, continuing the relentless battering of his body against her own for as long as he could, drawing out their pleasure until at last he collapsed beside her, breathless and spent.

* * *

Though Ruth had never actually been struck by lightning, she imagined this must be a somewhat similar sensation; her whole body was tingling, her every nerve sparking, every inch of her skin alive and so sensitive as to be almost painful. No matter how she tried she could not seem to breathe, to calm the delirious stuttering of her heart in her chest. Beside her Harry was gasping like a fish, and she tried to smile, tried to raise her hand to rest it upon his heaving chest, but she found she could not move a muscle, that she had been paralyzed by the delicious passion of his touch, and so she simply laid there, her head turned towards him on the pillow, watching him with hungry eyes while her body sang. Harry was certainly not her first lover, but as she lay there beside him, she could not help but think that he was the _best_ , not just by virtue of the physical pleasure he brought her, but because he knew her so well, because she knew _him_ so well, because together they were more than she could ever have hoped to be alone.

The world outside her bedroom was a dark and dangerous place, but with him here beside her the sun was rising, dawn was breaking, and Ruth was quite suddenly overcome with a sense of joy, of peace, the likes of which she had never known. They had spent so very long denying themselves this closeness, constructing walls to protect their hearts one from the other, but in this moment they were one, together, whole, and she was happier than she could ever recall being in her life. It would be difficult, she knew, to forge ahead together, to defend themselves against the bullets in the night, the whispers in the daylight, the enemies, known and unknown, that dogged their steps. There was doubt, still, somewhere in the far reaches of her heart, a tiny voice that whispered to her _it's early days yet,_ as if with time he might well grow tired of her, or she of him, as if one day one of them might lash out in rage or pain and bring this dream of theirs crashing down around them. She did not know what the future might hold, but the present was too blissful for those thoughts to bring her down from the pinnacle Harry had brought her to.

Finally she found the strength to move; she flung her arm across his chest, holding him close to her, and at the touch of her skin against his own Harry turned his head, caught her gaze, and smiled. It was, she thought, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, if only because it was the most honest, if only because in the light of her lover's eyes she saw reflected every thought, every feeling that coursed through her own veins.

* * *

When Ruth came into the office that morning, Will trailing behind her like a shadow, she wore a smile she could not hide. Margot didn't comment on it, though she had to bite her lip to keep from answering with a smile of her own. Though they had not been working together for very long Margot already felt a certain kinship with her employer; Ruth was kind and unassuming, gentle and always attentive, and she did not make unreasonable demands of Margot, did not throw her weight around and regard her PA with disdain. Those were rare qualities, Margot knew, and altogether made Ruth the best boss Margot had ever had. What Margot wanted, more than anything, was to make Ruth proud, to demonstrate her own usefulness and show that she deserved the respect she had so far received. With that in mind she did not to turn to Ruth with a twinkle in her eye and ask if she'd had a good night, did not inquire after Sir Harry's health; given what Margot had witnessed in the meeting the day before, she rather thought she knew enough to be making assumptions about what had put that smile on Ruth's face, and she did not want to embarass her by asking silly questions.

Instead Margot busied herself with making tea, mentally scrolling through their tasks for the day and preparing for what lay ahead. A few appointments in the morning, but Ruth would take those in her office, and then the Russians in the afternoon. Margot wasn't exactly looking forward to that particular meeting, but she knew that it was important, and likewise a good opportunity for her to show Ruth what she was made of. With the tea made and the day's schedule set, Margot went bustling back towards Ruth's office.

When she arrived Will was manning his post by the closed door, his eyes scanning the corridor endlessly, his shoulders set and his hands loose and ready by his side. Margot did not pause to study him, much as she might have liked; Will was a rather nice looking man, she'd noticed, a nice looking man with a nice voice and no wedding ring, but they each had a job to do, and she was determined not to indulge herself in mooning over him, or pondering too long on the virtue of his broad shoulders or his gentle smile. Though he gave no outward sign of having noticed her he reached out at the last moment to open the door for her, his eyes ever watchful despite his show of chivalry.

"What, none for me?" he murmured in a quiet voice as Margot stepped past him.

"Maybe next time," she whispered back.

* * *

This was not Will's first protection detail, and it certainly wasn't the most exciting, but it was turning out to be his favorite so far. Ruth had been more attentive to him than his previous charges, though all it took to earn that accolade was her acknowledgement of his existence. She thanked him when he held the door and asked if he'd had lunch, sending her PA off to fetch him a sandwich the day before when he confessed he hadn't. Her work kept her confined mostly to the Home Office, though they'd made a jaunt to Vauxhall the day before and he knew he'd be back in Thames House before the week was out, but each of those places was a veritable fortress, cloaked in layer after layer of security. The blokes who had drawn the night shift no doubt had more to worry about than Will at present, having to keep her flat secure and watch after both she and Sir Harry. That had surprised him, when Marks had confided that the pair of them were spending their nights together; Will had never thought of Sir Harry as the type of man to have a girlfriend. Though Will supposed Sir Harry almost definitely wouldn't have referred to Ruth as such.

Just the thought of the word _girlfriend_ sent Will's thoughts spiraling back to Margot, Ruth's - rather pretty - PA, and he chided himself even as he redoubled his efforts to keep watch on the corridor. Yes, Margot was pretty, and he liked the way she teased him, liked the way she'd bucked against his authority when he'd first arrived, doing her best to protect her employer's privacy. Margot had a way about her, a swing to her hips, a fire to her eyes, that Will liked very much, but he was here to do a job, and he was determined not to let himself be distracted.

Behind him the door opened; he did not turn to look, recognizing the sound of Margot's stilettos upon the polished wood floor, so different from the gentle tap of Ruth's bootheels. And then she was breezing past him, the faint hint of her perfume taunting him and testing his professionalism to its limits. He did not watch, as she settled herself at her little desk just outside Ruth's office door, as she smoothed her skirt over her thighs and ran a hand over her perfect hair, but he caught the shimmering of her movements in his peripheral vision, and took himself to task once more.

The minutes ticked slowly away; Will had very little to do save stand by the door and look menacing, but Margot it seemed was busy enough, clacking away at her keyboard while she tackled a variety of tasks he could not fathom. What did a PA do, anyway, he mused as his eyes scanned the corridor yet again. She fetched the tea and kept the schedule, but really, did that merit the display of industriousness taking place by his elbow?

Their solitude was interrupted by the arrival of one of the mail clerks; this particular one was known to Margot, it would seem, given that she greeted him by name, and so Will was much less interested in the lad than in the bouquet of flowers he carried in his arms.

"For Miss Evershed," the young man said, handing them off to Margot, who set them upon the desk before signing for them.

"Did those go through security?" Will demanded brusquely.

"Y-yes sir," the young man answered, eyeing Will and his dark suit with some trepidation. "From one of the companies on the list. It's all in order."

Will grunted, and resumed his watch while the young man hurried away.

"Really, Will, you could be nicer to him," Margot chided him softly.

"Not my job to be nice," he answered gruffly, secretly pleased to be speaking to her at all.

He expected her to take the flowers straight in to Ruth, but Margot took a moment to fuss over them, rearranging the bright blooms, running her hands around the clear glass vase. There was something about women and flowers, he thought ruefully, something he would never understand, but some piece of his mind filed away Margot's apparent delight. For some reason, he felt it was very important for him to know what she liked.

"I thought he said those were for Miss Evershed," Will teased her gently. Margot's face colored and he looked away at once, trying to stay focused on the task at hand. "Is there a card?"

"There is, as it happens," she huffed. "But I don't need to read it, I know who they're from."

"Do you?" Will fired back. Against all his instincts, he was rather enjoying their banter. This job wouldn't last forever, he knew; the perpetrators would be found, and Will would be sent off to other duties. Maybe, he mused as he shifted from one foot to the other, maybe, when it was all over, he could ask Margot out for a drink.

"Everyone knows who they're from," Margot said with an air of superiority that Will liked rather more than he should have. She continued her faffing about with the flowers, pressing her nose in amongst the multi-colored petals and breathing deeply.

And then she coughed.

"Margot?" Will asked softly, fear nipping at his heels, just a little. _It's probably nothing._

"That's strange," she muttered, mostly to herself. She set the vase upon the desktop and ran her fingertips around one of the flowers, her brow furrowed with worry.

"What's strange?" he demanded, abandoning his attempts at watching the hallway and marching over to her side at once.

"There's some sort of powder on the flowers," she mused.

 _Oh, shit._

"Get away from there!" Will barked, tugging her back with one hand while with the other he reached for his mobile. Perhaps this job wasn't as boring as he'd thought.


	17. Chapter 17

"Bloody disgraceful," Towers grumbled as he took a seat at the table. At those words Harry and Ruth exchanged a dispirited glance; it appeared that the morning's chaos had disgruntled the Home Secretary somewhat and it would, as ever, be up to them to appease him. They were gathered together in the meeting room on the Grid, where Ruth had been from the moment Will had whisked her out of her office hours before. The entire morning had been something of a disaster, but Ruth had to admit that despite the circumstances she had enjoyed the chance to revisit Section D, to check in on Tariq and Dimitri and to work closely with Harry once again.

At the moment, he was quietly seething, though outwardly he gave every appearance of being his usual collected self. Ruth knew better, of course; she could tell by the set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, the way he steepled his fingers together on the tabletop that he was right on the verge of one of his outbursts. It would not do, to have him shouting at the Home Secretary, however noble his motivations, and so she smoothly intervened, taking charge of the meeting so that Harry might have an opportunity to catch his breath and rethink the invective he no doubt longed to throw at Towers.

"Everything was done strictly according to protocol, Home Secretary," Ruth began in a quiet voice. Though Towers still had the look of a belligerent toddler about him she noticed that his expression softened, somewhat, when his gaze turned her way. Over the very brief course of Ruth's employment with the Home Office Towers had been kind and courteous towards her, for the most part, had listened when she offered insight and shown an admirable openness towards new ideas. Ruth hoped she'd be able to talk him down, and the slight calming of his demeanor when she spoke gave her hope. "The building was evacuated, the necessary personnel were quarantined, and the hazmat team was in place within minutes. Really, this morning's events demonstrate that the systems we have in place for dealing with a biological attack are more than adequate to-"

"Yes, but there wasn't a bloody biological attack, was there?" Towers interrupted gruffly. "All this time and manpower wasted to discover that a bloody florist was sloppy with his bloody fertilizer!"

Ruth winced at his tone, taking a moment to evaluate her response. It was true; the strange powder on the flowers had been identified as a mixture of sugar, citric acid, and bleach, a common treatment used to keep fresh-cut flowers from wilting. The Home Office had been evacuated and placed on lockdown for four hours, the afternoon's meeting with the Russians had been cancelled, and all for naught. "Given recent events-" she began, but then Towers cut across her once more.

"Ruth," he said exasperatedly. That habit of his was growing tiresome indeed. As he spoke Ruth's eyes flickered over to Harry, and she caught the outraged expression that flickered across his face as the Home Secretary barreled forward; though it was silly, really, for Harry to be incensed on her behalf, Ruth found she was rather touched by it all the same. "I understand that things are a bit...tense, just now, what with the shooting and the Russians, but that lad should have waited before he called in the cavalry. Our bargaining position has been severely damaged after this little fiasco. We look like amateurs!"

"That lad," Harry said slowly, "is a trained MI-5 operative. He followed protocol to the letter. If that powder had been ricin, or anthrax, or some other agent, every second would have counted. His actions under the circumstances were commendable."

Ruth's heart warmed, to hear Harry rushing to Will's defense. Though they had not spoken about it directly she knew that Will was kicking himself for causing such a fuss over what turned out to be nothing, but she agreed whole-heartedly with Harry. Someone out there was trying to kill the pair of them, and as far as she was concerned, they couldn't be too careful. As she inserted herself once more into the conversation, she made a mental note to mention this to Will, to let him know how pleased Harry was with his performance, how grateful she was to him for his quick thinking.

"There's no need for the details of this morning's...debacle to get back to the Russians," she said placatingly. "We'll tell them there was a suspected breach, but it was dealt with swiftly, to a positive result. This doesn't have to affect negotiations."

Towers couldn't argue with that, and he knew it, but he was still cross, and still looking for a likely target for his ire. He settled on Harry, in the end, rounding on him with flashing eyes.

"And I thought I told _you_ to be more professional!" he barked. Harry winced, slightly, but did not look away from the fuming Home Secretary. "Really, Harry, sending flowers to Ruth at work hardly qualifies as keeping your distance!"

 _What's this, then?_ Ruth wondered, her eyes bouncing back and forth between the pair of them. In all the commotion she had not had an opportunity to inspect the flowers, and had in fact all but forgotten about the necessity of identifying the person responsible for sending them. Dimitri had spearheaded those efforts, as Ruth and Harry spent the morning on the phone with various higher-ups, urging calm and prudence as wild allegations flew through the air faster than bullets. It had not occurred to her until this very moment that, given that the flowers were entirely benign, they might have been from Harry. It just didn't seem like the sort of thing he would do, send her flowers at work. More alarming still was Towers's implication that he had already spoken to Harry about their relationship without Ruth's knowledge; as her mind kicked into overdrive she realized that Towers had most likely brought it up during his meeting with Harry the day before. And yet Harry had not mentioned it to her. That chafed, a little, knowing that Harry had held this information back from her. Ruth's second-greatest fear, when it came to pursuing a romantic relationship with Harry, was that it might in some way negatively impact their careers, and he knew it, and yet had not prepared her for this. Her greatest fear, of course, was that she might lose him, that he might perish in some horrific way, and her grief might be magnified a thousandfold, now that she had found solace in his arms at last.

"Much as I might like to take credit for them, Home Secretary, I can assure you that I did not order those flowers," Harry said flatly.

As if on cue there came a frantic knock on the door, and the next moment Dimitri was striding into the meeting room, carrying a thin file in his hands. "We've identified the source of the flowers," he said triumphantly, handing the file over to Harry, who flicked through in an irritated sort of way. Dimitri faltered somewhat, when his pronouncement was not met with praise but rather stony silence from all quarters, and so Ruth caught his eye, and gave him a reassuring little smile. No matter how irascible the two men seated beside her might be, Ruth knew that Dimitri's findings were important, and he deserved some recognition for his hard work.

"Thank you, Mr. Levendis," Harry said curtly. He leveled a meaningful look at his young agent, and Dimitri gave him a little nod before turning smartly on his heel and making a quick retreat.

"Well?" Towers asked impatiently.

"The flowers were purchased using a credit card in the name of Anatoly Fedorov," Harry declared, casting the file down on the table as if it were a gauntlet.

"Well," Towers said again, though this time his tone was soft and rather thoughtful. "That is strange. What's the head of the Russian delegation doing sending you flowers, Ruth?"

At the HS's question Ruth spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "I honestly have no idea."

Towers harrumphed, and rose ponderously from his chair. "Look into it," he grumbled. "Discreetly. Ruth, I'd like to see you this afternoon, once you've finished here."

"Of course," she said with a nod.

And then Towers was gone, and Ruth and Harry were blissfully alone once more.

"Grumpy bastard," Harry muttered.

Since they were alone, with no one around to see, Ruth reached out and placed a gentle hand on his forearm, squeezing him lightly in a touch that was half comfort, half reprimand.

"He's just worried about potential fallout, Harry."

"He ought to be worried about your PA. Poor girl was scared half to death."

Ruth smiled softly as she withdrew her hand from Harry's arm. As much as he could be a hard bastard, Harry really did have a kind heart, and she appreciated his concern for Margot. It was true, that Margot had been terrified; the last time Ruth had seen her, the girl was sitting alone at her desk, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes wide as saucers. Protocol dictated that she stay put until help arrived, even as Will all but dragged Ruth from the building. In the hours since Ruth had been able to speak to Margot, who had apologized profusely for all the trouble, despite Ruth's reassurance that she had done nothing wrong. It was a near miss, as far as Ruth was concerned, and she was grateful her PA had come through the ordeal relatively unscathed.

"He does have a point, though," Harry mused, running a weary hand over his face. "Why would Fedorov send you flowers?"

"Perhaps as a token of goodwill?" Ruth suggested, but even as she spoke she knew that was not the answer. The flowers had been delivered with a card, to be sure, but the card was completely blank. If Fedorov's intentions had been noble, surely he would have included some message. Wouldn't he?

"Perhaps a token of something else entirely," Harry muttered darkly. He rose from his chair, grimacing slightly as he stretched out his dodgy knee. It was bothering him, Ruth knew; no doubt their early morning activities had strained it somewhat, and she smiled at him fondly at the thought. _Poor Harry,_ she mused. _I shall have to make it up to him._ All sorts of delicious possibilities flooded her mind at once, and despite herself she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Really, it was the height of impropriety, to stand with Harry on the Grid and picture the pair of them in a series of compromising positions that would also alleviate any stress upon his knee, but it was freeing, too. Those thoughts were allowed now, now that they could act upon them, now that they could retire to the same bed at night and leave their troubles on the doorstep. Ruth found the whole prospect rather lovely, actually. Thus far being in a relationship with Harry had felt like nothing so much as a beautiful dream, with the exception of the night the bullets had torn through his kitchen. Ruth was rather looking forward to exploring more of their newfound intimacy, but she knew that now was not the time.

"I suppose you'll have to get back, then?" Harry asked as he dawdled by the doorway. On impulse Ruth reached up and pecked him lightly on the cheek. "I do," she told him. "But I'll see you tonight."

Harry beamed at her. "See you tonight," he answered softly as she stepped past him and out onto the grid.

* * *

"Harry!" Erin called his name, knocked upon the door, and came barging into his office all at once. He'd been alone for less than twenty minutes, catching up on all the matters that had been shifted to the backburner during the morning's calamity, and he did not welcome this sudden intrusion. Knocking while opening the door rather defeated the purpose of knocking in the first place, he thought, but he did not mention this to Erin. He used to tease Ruth about how she ought to knock, and he did not want Erin to construe his comments about her behavior as lighthearted, the way his old banter with Ruth had been. Instead he fixed her with a steely look, feeling secretly rather pleased when she balked under the weight of his gaze.

"Yes?" he asked after a pause designed specifically to make Erin feel as uncomfortable as possible.

"Paul Hadley," Erin said, regaining some of her confidence and crossing the office to place a file in front of him. "He's been with Special Branch for over a decade. Highly decorated, and generally well respected."

Harry flicked through the file absently; he wasn't actually reading it. He rarely did, when information was brought to him in this fashion. Usually the agent in question would deliver the pertinent details, and Harry would save reading the file for a later date, when he actually had the time to peruse its contents at length. It was a system that worked rather well, but he still kept up the pretense of reviewing the file in the moment to encourage his officers to be thorough in their briefing, and not to embellish. They were less likely to lie, if they thought Harry was following along on the page.

"He was a part of the team that oversaw the investigation into the Cotterdam fire, Harry."

"That's very interesting," Harry said slowly as the alarm bells began to ring in his head. " _Very_ interesting," he mused to himself as reached down to unlock the safe tucked away in the corner of his desk. Harry had long suspected that in addition to being responsible for the coverup of the extradition of the seven terrorists, Special Branch had also been responsible, in some way, for ending Mick Maudsley's life, for sending him careening into Ruth's path and ultimately tearing her away from him. Years before he had thoroughly investigated each member of the Special Branch taskforce assigned to manufacture the report that had labeled the fire an accident, and yet he could not recall having ever come across Paul Hadley's name. With a grunt he retrieved a thick tome from the safe and slapped down upon his desk.

Erin blanched at the sound and then seemed to regain control of herself, leaning forward to examine the document closely.

"Harry, is that-"

"The original Special Branch report into the Cotterdam fire, yes," Harry said, somewhat smugly. Though he had given up his own personal investigation years before Harry had yet to part with the report. It had remained with him, through the long years of Ruth's absence, during the tumultuous period of her reentry into Five, as a reminder of justice that had not yet been served. There were questions still to be answered, and he would not part with the report until he had seen all of those responsible for Ruth's exile held accountable.

"Tell me what you see here," he said, flipping open the book and flicking through the pages until he found what he was looking for. He turned the report so Erin could read it more clearly.

"It appears to be a list of everyone who worked on the Special Branch task force," she said slowly.

"It is," Harry answered. "These are the men responsible for writing this report. Notice anything odd?"

"Paul Hadley's name isn't on this list," Erin said. She straightened up, her gaze confused but alight with curiosity.

"And yet, you said he was part of the task force."

"It's in his official file," Erin fired back defensively. "Tariq hacked Special Branch records. It's all right there." She gestured to the documents she'd brought in with her.

"So why is his name not on the report?" Harry mused, running his hand over his chin.

"That's the thing. Tariq pulled a copy of the report. Hadley's name is listed on the official document on record with Special Branch."

Harry had no idea what any of this meant, but he was certain that it wasn't anything good. "So, either Hadley was a member of the task force and someone took steps to cover up his involvement at the time, or he never had anything to do with Cotterdam at all, and the records have been doctored to make it appear as if he did."

"But why would anyone want to do that? Either of those things?" Erin asked the very question that was pestering Harry so relentlessly.

"I have absolutely no idea. Find out, won't you?"


	18. Chapter 18

"You asked to see me, sir?" Ruth said quietly as Towers ushered her into his plush office. It was still a bit strange, spending time in the Home Secretary's domain without Harry there beside her. Strange, but exciting, too. People deferred to her here in a way they never had done at Thames House; oh, she was well-respected there, but she knew that what power she had came from the perception that she spoke with Harry's voice. It was something else entirely, to possess authority of her own, and she found she rather liked it, no matter how daunting it could be at times. Ruth was bloody good at her job, and she knew it, and she was grateful for the opportunity to demonstrate just how much she was capable of.

At present she didn't feel particularly authoritative, however; Towers was still somewhat miffed, over that morning's disaster, and now that she knew he had spoken to Harry about their relationship, she felt rather embarrassed every time he looked at her. Ruth absolutely bloody hated this, hated knowing that people were talking about her, conjecturing about what she got up to in her own home, and with whom. It was one thing for Harry's team to know; Section D were like their family, and Ruth knew that their friends in Thames House would only be happy for them, would not find anything salacious or improper about their newfound closeness. It was something else entirely for her boss to know who she was seeing, poking his head into her personal life. There were some things, she thought, that really ought to be keep separate from work. And yet, there seemed no way to separate her feelings for Harry from their professional lives. The two had been so closely intertwined for so long now; who they were, what they were together, had grown from their work, from the hours they'd spent fighting in the trenches shoulder-to-shoulder. What friends they had were all Security Services, and it sometimes felt as if they had no secrets, nothing that they could claim as truly their own, when the most significant moments of the personal relationship had all been entered into public record.

And it chafed, that knowledge that Harry had not shared with her the details of his conversation with Towers. They were supposed to be a team, Harry and Ruth, and yet his silence on the matter had left her on the back foot. She wasn't cross, exactly, wasn't angry, wasn't about to let one moment's foolishness destroy the rather lovely little bubble they had built for themselves in her home, but she wasn't going to let it pass unaddressed, either.

That was a worry for another time, she knew. At the moment, she was slowly lowering herself into a chair across from Towers's desk, awaiting whatever fresh hell he decided to lob at her.

"Yes I did," Towers said, groaning slightly as he leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, what do you know a chap called Paul Hadley? Works with Special Branch?"

Ruth's heart skipped into double-time at those words. Her brief introduction to the man had left a sour taste in her mouth, and she knew that Harry and his team were quietly looking into any connections he might have had with Cotterdam. Just the thought was enough to turn her stomach, to set her hands to shaking; her life had been destroyed, for no other reason than that Harry loved her, and that powerful men with evil motives were determined to use that love to break him. If Hadley had been one of those men, if he had set in motion the events that ruined her life, sent her careening into George's path, set both she and Harry up for all the heartbreak that had followed since that fateful day when Mick Maudsley stepped in front of train before her very eyes, then he was a threat to her very life, and she wanted nothing to do with him.

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about him," she said truthfully, keeping her voice low and measured despite her thundering pulse.

Towers hummed in a vaguely dissatisfied sort of way. "He's been with SO15 since its inception."

Ruth shifted uncomfortably in her seat. SO15 - Counter Terrorism Command - had been the brainchild of Oliver Mace, one of the last things he did before Cotterdam blew up in his face and he was removed from power. It was part of his scheme for reinventing the Security Services, with himself at the top, increasing the intelligence capabilities of Special Branch, under his direction, of course. At the time it had become apparent that Harry was no one's lackey, and Mace wanted to assume more control over operations, no doubt to further his agenda of using any means necessary to extract information, regardless of their legality, and to that end he had created this new entity. She had drawn some satisfaction, from knowing that Mace never had the chance to enjoy the fruits of his labor, but if Hadley truly had been one Mace's cronies, then the victory was hollow indeed.

"There's some talk, about giving the Head of SO15 a seat on the JIC," Towers continued. "And given that the current Head is on his way out, there's talk of moving Hadley into that position. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the man, whether he can be trusted, and whether SO15 needs to be brought in at all."

 _Carefully now,_ Ruth thought, twisting her hands together nervously in her lap. "There is some merit, in introducing SO15 to the JIC," Ruth conceded. "We're all working towards the same goal, and any opportunities to increase communication between branches of the Security Services should be taken. As far as Hadley is concerned, I'm afraid I don't have any further information. I could look into him, if you like."

"Quietly," Towers said, giving her a thoughtful look. Ruth was a bit relieved at his response, given that Harry had already turned the resources of the Grid in that direction; now they had Towers's blessing to do what they would have done anyway.

"I am hesitant to mention this," Ruth said, taking a fortifying breath and hoping that she wasn't about to overplay her hand, "but I am concerned that Hadley mentioned Cotterdam, yesterday. The prison fire and the torture of the seven suspected terrorists took place in 2006. The man behind that operation, Oliver Mace, was instrumental in the establishment of SO15, and if Hadley has been involved with SO15 since its inception-"

"Also in 2006," Towers cut across her. There was nothing vindictive in his voice; rather it seemed as if he were musing to himself, and so Ruth did not allow herself to be too perturbed by the interruption. "You think perhaps Hadley was in cahoots with this Mace character, perhaps he benefited in some way from his involvement in Cotterdam?"

"I think it's possible. Special Branch was responsible for writing the report intended to make the fire look like an accident. I have some concerns regarding Hadley's involvement."

"As do I," Towers said. "Thank you, Ruth. That will be all."

She murmured her farewell and all but ran from the room, her mind racing and Will trailing along behind her like an anxious puppy. It would seem the wheels were turning, but Ruth had yet to determine what sort of plot was afoot.

* * *

Harry's feet were aching, when he came shuffling in through Ruth's front door that evening. He loitered in the foyer for a moment, shedding his jacket and tie and slipping out of his shoes, running his hand across his neck and trying to bring order to the jumbled mess of his thoughts. From the kitchen he heard quiet music drifting from the radio, the clinking of pots and pans as Ruth cooked. She left the office at a reasonable hour, these days, and he had to admit it was rather nice, coming back to this flat to find her there to greet him. It was dangerous, he knew, how quickly he had become accustomed to sharing his life with her, how much pleasure he derived from it; whatever they were to become, they had only just set off on this phase of their relationship, and a piece of him was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the paradise they'd built to come crashing down around his ears. Touching her, holding her, living with her had given him hope, but hope was a dangerous thing, for in the losing of it, a man could lose his very soul.

"Something smells good," Harry told her as he strolled into the kitchen, smiling at the sight that greeted him. Ruth had changed out of her work clothes, and was at that moment wrapped in a soft grey dress, her feet bare and her little cat twining circles around her ankles while she worked. Her hair fell in loose waves around that face he loved so well, that face he loved more than any in the world, her blue eyes warm and shining at him from across the room.

"Oh, I think it will be edible," Ruth said lightly, presenting her cheek for him to kiss as he approached her.

Harry caught her chin in his hand, lifted her head gently so that when he kissed her it was her lips, and not her cheek, that he tasted. She hummed appreciatively, turning in his arms and draping her arms around his neck, lifting herself up onto her tiptoes as she opened her lips to his searching tongue. This was by far his favorite thing about coming home these days, holding her, kissing her, feeling the weight of the world lift from his shoulders each time she touched him. In some ways he felt as if they'd been doing this for years, as if he had already forgotten a time when he was not allowed to kiss her at will, despite the fact that in reality it had only been a bare few days. In the past he would not have moved so quickly when embarking upon a new relationship, but he and Ruth had been involved with one another for so very long now, their history carved into their very souls, and he wasn't sure this qualified as a _new_ relationship. Just an old one, recreating itself into something even more beautiful.

When finally Ruth pulled away from him she did not push him away, but simply rested her forehead against his shoulder, her pulse racing as his fingertips danced over her neck and around to massage her hairline, her breaths gasping in time to his own.

"Did you have a good day at work, then?" she asked him playfully, and Harry gave a little chuckle. He kissed the top of her head and then went off in search of wine as he pondered how best to answer her question.

"It was certainly interesting," he told her as he rummaged around for glasses. "We have more questions than answers, at present."

"I'm concerned about Fedorov and those flowers," Ruth told him as she turned her attentions back to the stove. "I'm hoping I'll have a chance to speak to him at the meeting tomorrow, get a better feel for his intentions."

Harry's heart went cold, as it always did at the thought of Ruth in danger, but he held his tongue. He knew that she was right, that she would be the best person to approach Fedorov, to determine what the hell the Russian had to do with recent events, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about it. Still, though, Ruth was new to her position, was trying to find her feet, and Harry knew that despite his reservations he had to let her. This was her chance to spread her wings, to show the world what she was capable of, and he wanted to rejoice in her success, not fetter her with his own worries.

"I'll be interested to see how that turns out," he told her.

She turned away from the stove, smiling that gentle smile she reserved just for him. "I'll let you know if I find out anything," she assured him as he handed her a glass of wine. For a moment they were quiet, eyeing one another speculatively there in her kitchen, drinking in a peaceful, companionable sort of silence, but he knew Ruth well, and he could tell there was something more she wanted to say.

"Ruth-"

"Why didn't you tell me you'd spoken to Towers about us?" she asked him softly.

His shoulders sagged; he'd known somehow this was coming, from the moment Towers had left the Grid earlier in the day, and he'd been dreading it. Things had been going so well between them, but Ruth's need for privacy had cost them everything once, and he could not bear the thought of it happening again. For a moment he considered kissing her again, distracting her with lips and wandering hands, but in the end he decided on telling the truth instead.

"I had planned to," he confessed. "I knew that you would be concerned by his interest, and I wanted to tell you, but I was a bit...distracted, yesterday."

To his surprise, Ruth was smiling at him. "I think we both were," she murmured, her cheeks coloring faintly, no doubt at the memory of how they had spent their evening, twined together, sweaty and ecstatic in her bed.

"What did he say?" she asked, her eyes still downcast.

"Just that he didn't approve of my behavior, in recent days, and that he expected a bit more reserve from me. He has nothing but praise for you, Ruth." This last he added earnestly, coming to stand beside her once more. "And he's right. I shouldn't be flaunting our relationship at work."

Ruth sighed heavily, and leaned against his shoulder. "Things will settle down, Harry," she told him, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "I'm sorry for getting you into this mess."

"I hardly think this is your fault, Ruth," he protested. "And really, it wasn't an official reprimand. We've nothing to worry about." He kissed her temple lightly. "Now, what's for supper?"


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: This chapter is a bit shorter than the rest, but I wanted it to stand alone. The beginning is M rated.**

* * *

"Oh god," Ruth keened, her voice high and breathless as she arched above him, weightless and free and utterly beautiful. For his part Harry could only groan, his hands molding themselves to the perfect curve of her hips, his whole body wound tense and tight as a bow string as he surged beneath her, desperately chasing the same release that painted a crimson flush across Ruth's chest. She had consumed him utterly, and with each graceful downward thrust of her body she devoured him still further, tore every thought from his head until all that remained was a resounding chorus of _Ruth Ruth Ruth._

Still she moved, the soft skin of her thighs pressed hard against his body, her breasts swaying with each move of their hips, the delicious heat of her sliding down the length of his shaft and ripping the breath from his lungs. He was delirious with want of her, awe struck by her abandon in this moment. Those gentle hands he loved so well were pressed hard to his shoulders, holding her steady, holding him down, a tether to keep the pair of them from flying apart in the face of the shattering pleasure they brought to one another, thrusting and grinding and moaning there together in the dark and quiet of her bedroom late at night. They were both of them slick and glittering under a fine sheen of sweat as they continued to work toward their goal, the scent of Ruth's arousal flooding Harry's senses and igniting within him some baser instinct, some drive to take her, make her his completely, and yet tonight Ruth was a wild thing, unfettered and unchained, and it would seem that this time, she would be the one to possess him. He was powerless in the face of her lithe body, her supple grace, and so he gave himself over to it, holding himself firm beneath her as she drove them both towards oblivion.

Each ragged cry from her lips pierced him to his very soul, lit a fire deep in his belly that only she could quench. He wanted to taste her, and so he raised his hands, sliding along the curve of her hip to the soft plane of her back, his hands tracing across her sweat-slicked skin, pulling her down towards him. She went with him willingly, the change in angle drawing a whimper from the pair of them even as his lips made contact with the swell of her breast. He took over now, held her there against him and thrust up harder, his teeth sinking into her tender flesh, until finally she tumbled beneath the waves of her euphoria, crying out his name as she collapsed against him, her whole body trembling and alive above him.

There was nothing for it then but for him to relinquish his control as well, and with a few final, furious thrusts that left her mewling he spilled himself inside her, gasping and relieved and overcome with love of this woman.

For a long time after he held her, splayed across his body with his softening cock still buried inside her, his shaking hands tracing circles across her back as they both calmed, their hearts slowing to beat in time with one another. He could happily have slept like that, cocooned within her warmth and his love of her, but as he came back to himself he realized that the cause of her trembling was neither passion nor cold, but something else entirely.

Ruth was crying.

"Ruth?" he murmured uncertainty, brushing her hair back from her face in an attempt to find her eyes, those brilliant, shimmering eyes that would tell him with a single glance what was troubling her. Above him Ruth shook her head and buried her face in the crook of his neck, her arms and legs still wrapped around him, holding him tight beneath the fragile weight of her body.

"What is it?" he asked her softly, unwilling to let this go, troubled by the thought that his lover might weep in his embrace, even after the blinding, beautiful release they had just shared.

"It's nothing," came her whispered answer, her lips brushing against the veins of his neck and sending a chill of arousal running down his spine, despite the fact that he had nothing left to give her. After so many years spent pining for her, every touch of her skin against his own was electric. In that moment he was sure he would never tire of this, certain that there would never come a day when he did not want her with everything he had.

"Tell me." He kept his voice low and gentle, not wanting to make demands of her and yet knowing that he could not rest until he knew what had brought forth such a reaction from her.

"You'll think I'm mad," she told him, shivering slightly. She drew her hands up between them, her fingertips ghosting across his chest even as her legs tightened around his body, keeping him firmly in place. Ruth didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave him, and he drew some comfort from her proximity, from knowing that - this time, at least - she wasn't running from him. Whatever the cause of her tears she was still with him, and even in his somewhat addled state of mind he could recognize just how momentous that was. She had always been a runner, his Ruth, had always been the sort to avoid conflict and keep her own feelings locked away, no matter how she was hurting. For her to stay with him now, to even entertain the notion of unburdening herself to him, represented to Harry a massive step forward in their relationship, one that scared him even as it elated him. It was one thing, for her to tell him of her heart, but she would no doubt expect the same from him, and Harry Pearce had never been much a one for _feelings._ Still, though, she was his Ruth, and he loved her, and he was determined to do whatever it took to make her happy.

"I'm sure I won't," he told her, raising his head just high enough to press a kiss to her forehead. "Tell me."

"I can't help thinking this is too easy," she confessed.

Harry fought a sudden, wild urge to laugh aloud. When had things between them ever been easy?

"I don't know about that," he said slowly, trying to measure his words and desperately hoping that he'd get it right; all too often he had bungled it in the past, had said the wrong thing and watched her fleeing from him with recrimination in her eyes, and he could not bear to lose her now, not after everything they'd shared in this bed he had already come to think of as theirs. "It's been a long, hard road, Ruth. I don't think anything about us has ever been easy."

Above him Ruth sighed and then shifted, drawing a groan from the back of Harry's throat as she rose to sit above him, still straddling him. She ran her fingers through her soft dark hair, and the sight of her, the sheer loveliness of her body, captivated him utterly. How was he supposed to have a serious conversation with this beautiful woman sitting astride his hips? For her sake he would try, though his mouth went dry and his every thought disappeared from his head at the sight of her. In the face of her glory he could not stop his hands from rising to her hips once more, his fingers kneading her flesh gently, reminding him that all of this was real, that he had somehow, miraculously, found his way into her bed and into her heart.

"I spent so long wondering, if you and I could ever work," she explained, tracing distracting patterns across his chest with her fingertips, "And now you're here, and it feels like this is the way things have always been. It feels like this is our home, now. But it's only been a few days-"

Harry reached up and cradled her cheek in his palm, his anxiety lessening somewhat when she leaned into his touch, though her face was still troubled. "We've known each other for a very long time, Ruth," he pointed out. "It's not all that surprising that we work well together at home, given how well we've done at work."

Her lips turned down in the ghost of a frown, but she did not contradict him. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned work to her, but it was true; if she could read his mind on the Grid, if he could support her there, then what reason did she have to think they could not do the same at home? There was something else, he realized, watching her hands continue to fidget, watching the anxious flicker of her gaze. He braced himself, and waited for her to speak.

"I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop," she told him in a soft voice. "I think it's all this talk of Cotterdam. It feels like so much history repeating itself, and I can't help but worry that it'll be just like it was before. I get close to you, and then someone or something takes you away from me. I couldn't bear it, Harry. I couldn't bear to lose you now."

 _That's quite enough of that,_ Harry thought grimly. With one hand he drew her down flush against him, and with his foot he lifted the duvet, catching it in his free hand and dragging it up over the pair of them. He rolled onto his side, wincing slightly as he finally slipped from between her thighs and she shivered in his arms. Ruth snuggled closer to him, her head nestling just beneath his chin, her arms wrapping around him as their legs tangled together, and for a moment he simply held her, treasuring the heat of her pressed in close against him.

"I won't let that happen, Ruth," he told her firmly. "Whatever happens, whatever's coming, I won't let anyone take you away from me ever again."

"Promise me, Harry," she whispered in a scared, broken little voice. The sound of her so lost, so terrified tore at his heartstrings, and so he held her tighter.

"I promise, Ruth."


	20. Chapter 20

There was something addictively domestic about sharing her mornings with Harry, trading kisses and cups of tea as they each stumbled through her little flat, Ruth searching for her boots while Harry looked on, straightening his jacket and smiling that gentle smile he reserved just for her. Mornings had never been her favorite time of day, but now that she had someone to share them with, someone to make her toast and kiss her cheek and remind her where she'd left her keys, now that she knew Harry was rather amorous first thing upon waking and that he made the most adorable little humming sound when she kissed his shoulder blade while he stood shaving at her bathroom sink, she found her perspective on mornings had changed rather dramatically. Now she was lingering in her flat, unwilling to leave the fragile cocoon of warmth and love they'd woven around themselves, rather than rushing off like mad, eager to see Harry at the first opportunity. For the first time in a very long time, Ruth was not in any hurry to get to work.

Much as she might have liked to have stayed, to spend the whole day tangled up with Harry, he _was_ in a bit of a hurry this morning, itching to get onto the Grid and discover more about whoever was trying to kill the pair of them, and so Ruth followed him out the door, her heart sinking slightly when he squeezed her hand in farewell before sliding into the backseat of his car. She ducked her head and followed her minder to her own vehicle, trying to focus on the task at hand, and not the sense of impending doom her separation from Harry had instilled in her.

They were meeting with the Russians today, but she had a few hours in which to prepare herself, and she knew she needed to come up with a plan. The head of the Russian delegation had sent her flowers, flowers that had caused the entire Home Office to be evacuated the day before, and Ruth needed to know _why._ She needed to know what it meant, what games were afoot, and whether the danger they faced was of the Russians' making. The fact that the flowers had been accompanied by a blank card had set all sorts of alarm bells to ringing in her mind; surely, if the intent had been innocent, the card would have borne some sort of message. The timing fit; she and Harry had been attacked the night before they met with the Russian delegation for the first time. If someone wanted to influence those meetings, the fastest way to enact change would be to remove Harry from the equation entirely. Ruth didn't want to become distracted by Paul Hadley and the nightmare that was Cotterdam, and overlook the importance of the Russian connection.

 _Occam's razor,_ Ruth mused as her car wound its way through the city streets, heading for the Home Office. _Entities are not to be multiplied without necessity; the right answer is often the simplest one. But which is the simplest answer? How do we solve this riddle while making the least assumptions?_

The Russians seemed to Ruth to be the cleanest answer. They were here, they hated Harry, they wanted something that he would not give them without a fight. And so she worried the hem of her cardigan between her fingertips, and tried to come up with a plan. She would need to tread lightly with Fedorov, would need to keep him sweet while also sizing him up, determining his motives. It would be a delicate line to walk, but Ruth was a spy, and she had learned from the best.

* * *

"Where are we with this Paul Hadley business?" Harry demanded gruffly as Erin came storming into his office. His question brought her up short; she had been under a full head of steam, no doubt on the verge of loosing some diatribe on him, but he had forced her hand, directed the course of their conversation before she had the chance to start in on him. It was an old tactic, but a good one; it reminded her that he was in charge here, despite the fact that she'd kept his chair warm in his absence. Harry still didn't entirely trust her, and he didn't like the covetous glint in her eyes when her gaze flickered to his office. It would do her good, to be reminded of where she stood in the pecking order. Erin didn't run this Section yet, and Harry would be damned if he handed the reins over to her any time soon.

"We're working on it," she said defensively. "We've reached out to our usual contacts with SO15 and Special Branch, and we should hear back from them soon. We're trying to determine where exactly he was in 2006, independent of his service record. If we can pin down his actual involvement in the Cotterdam investigation-"

Harry waved a hand impatiently, and she stopped speaking at once, her eyes flashing at him murderously. "And apart from that? What do we know about him personally? Is he well-respected? If he's given command of SO15 will we be able to work with him?"

Erin crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "Generally, he is not well-liked. The people I've spoken to have described him as arrogant, stubborn, single-minded, and a bit megalomaniacal." The look she gave him told Harry all too plainly that she felt the same descriptors could be applied to him, and he very nearly laughed in her face. The first three he would admit to freely; anyone who knew him knew he was an arrogant, stubborn, single-minded bastard. He did take affront at _megalomaniacal,_ however. A sudden pang of nostalgia overcame him; if Ruth had heard Erin's little diatribe she no doubt would have laughed, and Harry would have smiled at her, thinking how much he loved her, how well she knew him. Some days he missed her presence on the Grid so deeply it manifested as a physical pain in his chest. Still, though, he could spend his nights with her, and he counted himself the luckier for it.

"And do we have any more information on the shooting? Any new leads?"

Erin frowned. For a beautiful woman she had truly imposing frown, and Harry supposed it had served her well in previous postings; a flutter of the eyelashes there, a pout of those full lips here, and she got whatever she was after. If she thought to use such charms on Harry she was sorely mistaken; there was only one woman whose ire he feared, whose fluttering eyelashes could bring him to his knees, and she certainly wasn't Erin.

"We managed to locate the car on CCTV, but there were no registration plates, and the windows were tinted, so we couldn't get a view of the driver's face. We have the make and model, but it's a fairly popular vehicle, and I don't think that search is going to help us. We confirmed the caliber of the bullets, and Callum is running some checks, but it's a thin lead."

Harry grunted, dissatisfied. He had hoped that perhaps there would be something there, something unusual enough to point them in the right direction, and he was frustrated by their lack of results. It had only been three days, but still, he had hoped that they would have made more progress; the thought that whoever had tried to kill him, whoever had very nearly killed Ruth right before his very eyes, was still out there somewhere, waiting for the chance to strike again, filled his heart with dread. Their security team was good, but no one was infallible, and he couldn't shake the feeling that their luck must surely run out sometime soon. He wasn't used to feeling so feckless, so constrained by time and resources, but he could think of no other avenue to pursue at present.

"Keep at it," he said gruffly. It was intended as a dismissal, but Erin did not choose to interpret it as such, or if she did, she chose to ignore it entirely. She had come to his office for a reason, after all, and it would seem that she was determined not to leave until she'd completed her original mission.

"You shouldn't be staying with Ruth," she said.

Harry's head shot up once, his eyes rising from the pile in front of him to land on Erin's face, his expression one of sheer incredulity.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked in his softest, most dangerous voice, anger clenching his hands into fists upon his desk. _How dare she?_

"It goes against every protocol we have. We keep subjects in separate, secure locations, we don't let them stay together in a flat in Victoria. You and Ruth should be-"

"What Ruth and I do and where we go is absolutely none of your-"

"For God's sake, Harry, no one cares that you're sleeping together, we're just trying to keep you both alive!" Erin snapped.

The moment the words left her lips she paled, her eyes wide as dinner plates as she stared at him across his desk. She knew she had made a grave misstep, and even through his anger Harry could tell that she regretted it. For his part Harry simply stared at her, his eyes narrowed and his heart hammering in his chest, each beat loud as a thunderclap. She was right, of course; it wasn't safe for the pair of them to continue on as they had been. There were other flats in Ruth's building, too many points of entry to be covered all the time, and the locks on the front door would be all too easy for even an amateur lock-pick. There were too many windows, too much traffic on the street, and keeping two potential targets in the same place was a recipe for disaster.

"So arrange a safehouse then," Harry ground out from behind clenched teeth. "I don't care where, but you will be careful. You will not enter either of us into the system, and we will stay together. And you will get Ruth's bloody cat and bring her there. Understood?"

Erin nodded dumbly and then all but ran from the room, her stilletos clicking a sharp, anxious beat as she went.

* * *

By design Ruth was first in the meeting room; they were set to begin their next round of negotiations at 10:00, but she wanted the chance to speak to Fedorov alone, if she could. It would seem her wish had been granted, as he arrived - suspiciously unaccompanied - not two minutes after she did. Her hands shook slightly, as she stood staring out of the windows on the far side of the room; she was nervous, adrenaline and fear coursing through her veins, the way they always did before the start of any operation. Not that she was in any real danger, at present; they were in the Home Office, after all, and several high-ranking members of the Security Services would come barging in any second, and Margot was there, sitting on a chair against the opposite wall, legs crossed demurely like some sort of disapproving chaperone. Still, she did not know what game Fedorov was playing, how far he would go to get what he was after, and that left her uneasy.

"Miss Evershed," Fedorov said smoothly as he made his way across the room to stand beside her. "I was hoping I would get the chance to speak to you. I much prefer your company to that of your more...enthusiastic colleagues."

"Mr. Fedorov," she said, inclining her head in a gesture of polite greeting, choosing to gloss over his veiled reference to Harry. "I'm sorry we weren't able to meet yesterday."

"Yes," he drawled, his eyes searching her face in a way she found most disconcerting. "That was...unfortunate. I trust all is well?"

"Nothing to worry about," she said, forcing herself to smile. That was all the information he was going to get out of her, as regarded the cock-up that had been yesterday's evacuation. They had a certain reputation to uphold, after all, and Ruth would not be responsible for weakening their bargaining position.

"I wanted to thank you," she continued, turning her attention back to the window in the hopes that she could hide her discomfort from him. "For the flowers. They were lovely."

"You're very welcome," he all but purred. Fedorov shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing against hers in a way that made her skin crawl. It was entirely too familiar, entirely too intimate a gesture, and Ruth liked it not one bit. He was cocky, then, confident, sure enough of his standing to make such blatant overtures to a high-ranking member of the Home Secretary's staff, and that self-assurance made him dangerous to her. "Beautiful flowers, for a beautiful woman."

At those words Ruth turned to look at him sharply, and perhaps he saw some of her disgust in her face, for he took a step back, though his oily smile remained firmly in place.

"I hope I have not overstepped," he said, turning around so that he leaned back against the window, his arms crossed casually over his chest. There was something so calculated in his every word, his every gesture, but Ruth could not for the life of her determine what he was after. "I hope you do not have a partner who will be cross with me, for sending flowers to his lovely lady."

Ruth offered a thin smile in response. "He's not so easily threatened," she told him, somewhat smugly.

The only indication Fedorov gave that he heard was a slight widening around his eyes, a flicker of understanding shining there briefly. He opened his mouth to speak, but then the door to the meeting room swung open, and Harry came strolling in, his mouth set in a grim line. When he caught sight of them standing there by the windows he came to a rather abrupt stop, and Ruth decided to seize the opportunity she had been given.

"Good morning, Harry," she said in a soft voice. She left Fedorov standing there by the windows and made her way to Harry's side, the hairs on the back of her neck rising as she felt the Russian's gaze lingering curiously on her. With a deep breath, she reached out and laid her hand on Harry's forearm, and murmured to him in a voice that was just loud enough for Fedorov to hear, and yet quiet enough to obscure her words, "everything all right?"

Harry's eyes softened at the touch of her hand, the way they always did when she was near. As his gaze found hers she willed him to understand, to play along with the little game she had begun, and he gave her the slightest nod before he reached up, and covered her hand with his own where it rested upon his arm, giving her a little squeeze. "Just fine," he told her warmly.

On the other side of the room Fedorov had taken in the little scene with some interest, Ruth could tell, but there was no time for her to analyze what she'd just seen and heard. The Home Secretary came sweeping into the room, followed by the rest of the Russian delegation, and it was time for the meeting to begin in earnest. She would have to ponder it later, would have to ask herself whether Fedorov's interest in her seemed genuine, or if he had known all along of her connection to Harry, and was simply trying to get under his skin. Based on the somewhat smug expression that had overtaken the Russian's features, Ruth was fairly certain it was the latter, but she had more pressing matters to attend to, at present.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Apologies for the long delay! Most of y'all know that I only write outside, and we had an unusually long stretch of dismal rainy days this week. I haven't worked ahead on this fic and so didn't have anything to share with you during those dreary days, but the sun came out and I am back at it!**

* * *

"What's this?" Erin asked, leaning over Tariq's shoulder to get a better look at his monitor. Harry was off to the Home Office for another meeting with the Russians, and Erin was once more in command of the Grid in his absence. She knew what people said about her, the way they cast sidelong glances in her direction and whispered the word _ambitious_ when what they meant was _bitch._ It had long since ceased to worry her, that people were intimidated or even put off by her dedication to her craft. Erin knew what she wanted and had no qualms about going after it; likewise, she knew that those particular traits were considered unappealing in a woman, and she had grown a thicker skin rather than give into everyone's insistence that she soften her approach. She saved softness for her daughter; her work was a cutthroat business, and Erin was a survivor.

The truth was that yes, she did have her eye on Harry's chair, and yes, she disagreed with his sometimes over-enthusiastic approach to the job and occasional utter disregard for regulations, but more than that she admired him. He had been Section Head for longer than anyone else currently working with Five, had survived more political turnovers and disastrous personal moments than anyone she knew, and he remained tenacious and dedicated and a damned fine officer. Erin was in no rush to see him depart; she felt she still had much to learn from him, and for now she would be content with the status quo. Even if she did miss the authority his office had brought her from time to time.

At the moment, Erin was focused on untangling the mystery of who was behind the attack on Harry and Ruth. As far as she was concerned, nothing was more likely to endear her to Harry than to capture those responsible for threatening his life and the life of his...actually, Erin couldn't think of a word appropriate to describe just who Ruth was to Harry, and she was loath to contemplate their connection for too long. She had decided that this mission would be her primary focus, that she would not rest until the culprit was apprehended, and she could at last prove to Harry that she was a part of this team, someone to be trusted and valued as much as Dimitri or Tariq or even Ruth. _Well,_ she amended to herself, _perhaps not as much as Ruth._

"It's the transcripts from Harry's tribunal," Tariq explained. He gestured towards the screen, and Erin squinted slightly, trying to read the tiny font. "This session focused on the events immediately prior to Ruth's return to the Grid. I think they were trying to determine whether he had cut any corners, when he brought her back."

Erin hummed to herself, trying not to look too intrigued by this news. She had only worked with Ruth for a few weeks; by the time Erin arrived the Home Secretary had already tendered Ruth an offer to come and work with him, and she had gladly accepted it. In the brief time they had together, however, Erin had found herself with more questions than answers, where Ruth was concerned. Ruth had been standoffish and short with Erin, but warm and gentle with Tariq and Dimitri. She had a fierce intellect and a sadness behind her eyes that left Erin feeling a bit wary, and in truth there had not been time for either of them to become accustomed to the other. The transcripts might hold the key to the attempt on Harry and Ruth's lives, but more than that they held a potential for answering some of the many questions that Erin harbored where Ruth was concerned.

"Tariq, could you forward those to me? I'd like to look them over."

"Sure," he said, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Erin thanked him politely and then wandered back over to her station, smiling softly to herself. It was going to be a good day; even with her misstep in Harry's office earlier that morning still smarting, she felt it in her bones. They were going to find something today. They had to.

* * *

"I think you'll find, Mr. Pearce, we don't bite," Fedorov said in that oily voice of his, smiling a bitter little smile that made Harry's fist clench reflexively. The meeting so far had been tense and uncomfortable, each of them sniffing around one another like wary dogs, wanting to claim everything for themselves while likewise giving nothing away. There was no one Harry could imagine more undeserving of a special intelligence sharing arrangement than the Russians, and so far these proceedings had been almost farcical in their fecklessness. And Harry had not forgotten the strange scene he'd witnessed upon entering the meeting room, the way Ruth's eyes had shone with sheer relief when he'd stumbled across her having a private chat with Fedorov, the way she had come straight to his side, touched his arm, her gaze pleading with him to extend her the same warmth and save her from the rather obviously unwanted attentions of their esteemed Russian guest. They would need to discuss that later, he and Ruth, would need to talk about just what exactly it was he had interrupted, as well as the fact that Ruth would not be allowed back in her home for the foreseeable future, but for now they had to play at being politicians, and it rankled.

"I'm sure you don't," Harry ground out from behind clenched teeth, thinking nothing could be further from the truth. There was no arrangement he could fathom that would protect them from the endless machinations of the Russian intelligence gathering machine, and Harry still had not forgotten Tiresias, and the carnage that was very nearly wrought on British soil on the orders of some unknown faction in Moscow. No, he had no intention of trusting the Russians. "Be that as it may, we have to protect our own interests. I'm sure you understand."

"Perhaps, rather than a more transparent intelligence sharing arrangement, what we need is a more consistent one," Ruth supplied from the other end of the table, leaning forward so that Harry could see her around Towers's generous bulk. "We could discuss parameters for the regular passing of information, or set forth a list of events that would trigger an automatic message, so that in the future we are able to move more quickly to collaborate as needed."

Harry only just managed to suppress a smile at her words. It was a very Ruth response; it would make the Russians think they were getting a deal, but still allow Harry to maintain a certain level of discretion. She had surpassed all his expectations thus far, had shown herself to be a keen negotiator, and a diplomatic one, at that. Towers had seen it, Harry knew, had given her her head and allowed her to chime in as and when she felt it was warranted, and they all benefited from her calming presence at the table. That she was the only woman in their little coalition benefited them all in that the Russians seemed to think they might score points by being conciliatory with her, and as a result considered her propositions rather more carefully than they would have done had Harry voiced them instead.

"We already have a designated liaison for dealing with British Security Services," Fedorov mused. "But expanding their access would be beneficial for both our countries."

 _This again,_ Harry thought grimly. He would die before he saw a regular Russian presence on the Grid, or at Vauxhall for that matter, and given the way Frank was glowering, he rather thought his counterpart at Six agreed with him.

"We can discuss parameters for access," Ruth allowed, shuffling through her notes. "But don't expect an office at Thames House."

Fedorov chuckled darkly at that. "I wouldn't dream of it," he told her with a smile that was probably meant to be charming, but only succeeded in putting Harry's teeth on edge.

* * *

Erin leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes and taking a moment to absorb what she'd just read. She'd spent the last hour buried in the transcripts from Harry's tribunal, and they had been as illuminating as they were distressing. The details were all there; Lucas North's return to the Grid, the Sugarhorse fiasco and Harry's internment as he was investigated for treason, Connie James's betrayal and Tiresias, Harry's kidnapping by the rogue Russian agent and subsequent torture at the hands of a rogue Indian operative. Taken separately, each of them seemed to be horrific in its own right, but to see it all laid out in front of her, linear and dispassionate, had given Erin cause to reconsider some things.

 _What if,_ she asked herself, _these aren't disparate catastrophes? What if they're connected?_

A Russian had been behind the death of Adam Carter, one of Harry's previous Section Chiefs and a fine agent. A Russian who had subsequently, rather mysteriously, disappeared. Lucas North had been returned to the Grid after eight long years in a Russian prison cell, and he had eventually turned traitor. The Russians had been working with the Chinese to orchestrate the hack of Section D servers that had occurred when they tried to join their systems with the Americans, ultimately resulting in the death of a young American technical agent. It would seem that every personal loss Harry had suffered, every attempt on his life, every damn near unraveling of his team in the last four years could be traced back in some way to the Russians. What if there was a reason behind this common theme? What if there was a single thread that bound them and held the key to the current threat?

Dimitri was still looking into Paul Hadley, and Erin was grateful for it, unwilling to discount him as a possible suspect just yet, but the Russian angle was looking more and more appealing the deeper she dove into Harry's past. She could understand why, at the time, no one had questioned the possible connection between all of these events; understaffed and overworked and struggling to re-integrate Ruth into his team and his life after the death of her husband and the loss of her stepson, Harry had most likely been too busy keeping his head above water to question the stories he had been told. Now, though, Erin was determined to keep looking.

What if, she asked herself, there was a link? What if Lucas North was sent back, what if the Sugarhorse network was attacked in order to remove Harry from the field of play in advance of Tiresias? And what if, when they failed to eliminate him on their first attempt, Viktor Sarkisiian had been authorized to sell him to Mani, encouraged, even, in the hopes that the Indians would do Moscow's dirty work for them? And then, when that failed, well, North was still in play, and he very nearly succeeded in ending Harry's career and Ruth's life in one fell swoop. Someone had sent Vaughn careening into Lucas's path; what if that was the Russians, once again?

And now they were in London.

Erin's heart began to pound in her chest as she pondered the evidence before her. It was illuminating, certainly; she found her exploration of the history between Harry and Ruth had only served to elevate the pair of them in her estimation. They had endured so much, and yet remained true, to one another and to the realm. The story laid out in front of her was one of survival, and yes, one of love. It was love that brought Ruth crashing back into his Harry's life, love that had given her back her place on the Grid, love that had saved her life and damned Harry's career, and somewhere deep inside Erin's heart, locked away for safekeeping, was a piece of her soul that rejoiced, to know that such love had endured, and continued on, in spite of all the obstacles they had faced. She was determined to do right by them, to protect them, to use every resource available to her to make sure that they did not lose one another now, after everything else.

But first, she would need to speak to Harry. She would need to pick his brain, ask for hard truths, determine whether there was some piece of information she was missing, hidden away in his past or in Ruth's labyrinthine mind.

"Erin?" Dimitri's voice disturbed her musings and nearly sent her diving out of her chair, so lost had she been in her thoughts and Harry's past.

"Yes?" she answered, trying not to sound too breathless as she spun to face him. He was a nice young man, was Dimitri, and a nice looking one, too. The moment she'd first stepped onto the Grid months before she'd taken one look at him and felt her heart sink in her chest; this was a complication she could ill afford at this time in her life. Still, though, she looked forward to their every conversation, even if he was still fiercely loyal to Harry, even if he was terrible at hiding the hunger in his eyes when his gaze fell her way. With time perhaps he would learn to hide the longings of his heart, but Erin hoped it would be a long time indeed.

"I've had a thought," he said, leaning back against her desk and crossing his arms over his chest. "Yesterday's meeting with the Russians was cancelled, right? Because of the evacuation?"

"Yes," Erin said slowly, wondering where he was going with this.

"Well, then, where did they go? The Russians, I mean. They had a whole day to themselves, without Towers or anyone looking over their shoulders. How did they use it?"

Erin could have kissed him on the lips, she was so delighted by his inquiry. It hadn't even occurred to her ask, but Dimitri was right. It was the flowers from the Russian delegation that had caused the evacuation in the first place; had they known it was coming? Was the whole thing staged? And if it was, what the bloody hell was it all for?

This day had so far brought her nothing but questions, and yet she felt closer to solution to this riddle than she had in days. They finally had a lead, and she would pursue it, to whatever end.


	22. Chapter 22

Politicians, Ruth had found, measured productivity rather differently than ordinary people. For example, their ongoing meetings seemed to yield no tangible results, nothing that could be written down and underlined on a page and quantified as a success, and yet William Towers was practically beaming with pride by the end of their most recent discussion, clapping Ruth on the shoulder and praising her good work, droning on and on about the great strides they had made. Harry was chafing, she knew, made irritable by the lack of concrete progress, and yet she could understand in a way what Towers was on about. It was a delicate dance, each side giving ground so that they could together reach a mutually beneficial arrangement. No agreement had been made, but by the end of their meeting, the sense that the Russians might be amenable to the stipulations set forth by the British contingent was palpable.

Of course, aside from inching ever nearer to Towers's goal of an intelligence sharing agreement, Ruth felt the meeting had been a productive one for her own purposes, as well. She was now well and truly frightened of Anatoly Fedorov; though their conversation had been brief and mercifully interrupted by Harry's arrival, the longer she sat listening to him speak the more convinced she became that he was a dangerous man. The flowers were his doing, after all, and that was worrying for a variety of reasons; the blank card troubled her, as did the fact that he did not seem at all surprised when she revealed that she knew he was behind them. She was convinced that his motivation in sending the flowers had very little to do with affection or lust, and everything to do with power. But to what end? To disturb her? To distress Harry? To deliberately cause the evacuation of the Home Office? Or something else altogether?

She desperately wanted to discuss it with Harry, but he was summoned to Thames House immediately following their meeting; he had pulled a face and made his apologies and swept from the room, leaving Ruth bereft in his absence. In the past he had never gone where she could not follow, and to be left behind now, when they seemed beset by enemies on all sides and their fate was still so uncertain, cut her to the quick. It wasn't his choice, she knew; Harry would have her back on the Grid in a moment, if she asked it of him. And much as part of her might long for it, long to go back to the comfort and the familiarity of it, Ruth knew she could not ask. Her new position was a rewarding one, and it had the added benefit of giving both she and Harry the space they needed to pursue their burgeoning personal relationship. Being on the Grid together now would strain that delicate connection, would cause tensions to rise, would run the risk of placing them both in an untenable position. Harry could not guarantee she'd never be sent into the field, and she couldn't bear the thought of another Albany, another moment when Harry would have to choose between her life and the good of the realm. Better for both of them to avoid that circumstance altogether. Ruth had been faced with a choice, to maintain the status quo or to leap from the precipice, to keep Harry at a professional distance or to keep him in her bed, and she had made her choice.

And it was nice, she told herself as Will led her out to the car at the end of her working day, to leave the office at a reasonable hour, to come home and have a little time to herself before Harry joined her. She had time to read her books, and play with her cat, and one day soon, she might even have time for friends.

 _I'll have to make some first,_ she thought glumly as she folded herself into the backseat of the car. The friends she'd had before Cotterdam remained a part of her past, as she had no idea how to walk up to people who had mourned her death and confess that she was in fact very much alive. How could she ever hope to explain that to anyone outside of the Security Services, anyone who had not lived the life of shadows she had so fully embraced? No, she could not revisit those relationships, but perhaps in time she could forge new ones.

"Home, Miss Evershed?" Will asked her from the driver's seat.

"Yes please, Will," she answered.

He nodded and pulled away from the curb, and Ruth rested her head against the window, watching the city flashing by and trying to order her thoughts, trying to put aside the morose meanderings of her heart and focus on the Russian issue. Harry had rung her, late in the afternoon, and assured her that he would be home by seven, and she was determined that when he did arrive they would talk, properly, as they used to do, would examine their current problem from all angles and come up with some sort of a plan.

Will took a turning she wasn't expecting, and she sat up straight in her seat, her heart suddenly racing. _Oh God,_ she thought as they drove further and further away from her home, _not Will. Please not Will._ Ruth wasn't sure she could survive another betrayal.

"Where are we going?" she demanded sharply.

In the rearview mirror Will's eyes flickered up and locked on her own for a moment, but his expression was more surprised than malicious.

"A safehouse," he explained. "Miss Watts arranged it. Apparently there were some concerns about the security of your flat. You and Sir Harry will be staying at an MI-5 safehouse until the threat has been eliminated."

Ruth relaxed infinitesimally. The rationale behind moving her and Harry made perfect sense, of course, but she had been fooled by a similar speech once before, and George had paid the price with his life. She was resigned to remain where she was for the moment, to trust Will and see how this would all play out; though she was certain she could leap from the car at the next red light and run like hell before Will caught her, she also felt a bit foolish for even considering it. There were times when the dangers she'd faced in the past seemed as distant as the memory of a childhood nightmare, dulled with the passage of years and somehow detached from the reality of her life, and there were times when each wound seemed as fresh as if it had only been delivered that morning, when she felt the aching of her heart manifested as a physical pain in her chest, when her breath came short and sharp and her heart raced and her hands itched to reach for the nearest heavy object to defend herself from the claws of the demons that haunted her steps. She was somehow two people at once, in the backseat of that car, waiting to discover whether Will was driving her to a safe haven or to her doom; on the one hand she was plain old Ruth, bookish and a bit clumsy and inept at personal relationships, and on the other hand she was Ruth the spook, a liar and a ghost and a killer. True, the assassin had been practically dead already by the time Ruth fired that bullet into his chest, but she had done it, had looked into his eyes, her vision hazy from the drops of blood gathering on her eyelashes, the burns on her wrists still hot as fire, still choking as she tried to breathe through the bruises around her throat. She had looked into his eyes and fired, with hate and fear burning in her gut, and she had never been quite the same.

At long last Will brought the car to a stop in front of a little house at the end of a long street. A tall fence ran around the perimeter of the property, and there were even a few trees looming over the house from the back garden. He stepped from the car first, opening the door for her at once and ushering her through the little gate and into the house with a courteous hand resting at the small of her back. As soon as they stepped through the door a familiar sight was there to greet Ruth and set her at her ease; Felicity came racing round the corner, winding herself round and round Ruth's ankles until she bent and lifted the little creature into her arms, breathing a sigh of relief. If Will intended to kill her, he certainly wouldn't have brought her cat along, and Ruth felt a bit foolish for doubting him at all.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Will just smiled. "Have a good evening, Miss Evershed," he answered, inclining his head politely before he departed, leaving Ruth alone with her thoughts. And her cat.

* * *

Nothing delighted Harry quite so much as coming home at the end of a long day and finding Ruth waiting for him. Though they had been shuffled off to a safehouse arrangements had been made to stock the pantry, and when he came sauntering home he was greeted by the sight of Ruth once more cooking dinner. He paused for a moment, smiling as he watched her; he could care less what they ate, or when, and he intended to have a word with Ruth, about how he didn't expect for her to prepare their meals every night like a 50s housewife, but in that instant he resolved to enjoy it, to lose himself in imagining that they could carry on like this forever. She had been right, that morning, when she'd said it felt too easy; they had slotted together so quickly, so effortlessly, that a part of him felt as if they were married already. And much as he might long for that, might yearn to ask her, to bind her to him permanently, he was determined to wait. He had learned the lessons of the past; _timing means everything,_ she'd told him once. Well, he was determined that the next time he asked her would be the right one, not a bare few days into their courtship when they were living in a safehouse and looking over their shoulders at every turn.

He slipped up behind her on silent feet, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing himself against the plane of her back as his lips descended upon the graceful arch of her neck. Beneath him she sighed in bliss, laying her spoon carefully down on the side before covering his hands with her own, threading their fingers together as she rested her head against his shoulder.

"Hello," he breathed against her neck.

"Hello," she answered, reaching up with one hand to cradle the back of his head, her fingers ghosting over his hair in a gentle, tender touch that left him aching for her. "Long day?"

He shook his hand, unwilling to discuss the fiasco that had been his afternoon at Thames House, the thwarted terror attempt that had taken precedence over the investigation into the shooting and left him in an ill humor. The sight of her had lifted a great weight from his shoulders, and he had no intention of letting work spoil the moment. Cheekily his hands began to wander, one drifting down to cup her hip while the other rose, cresting the swell of her breast and drawing a sharp, not unwelcoming gasp from Ruth. His lips travelled further up her neck until he could catch the lobe of her ear between his teeth, and in his arms Ruth seemed to melt, pressing further back against him and drawing a groan of want from deep in the back of his throat.

And then, before he could pursue this delightful avenue as far as he might have liked, there came a knock upon the door.

"I'll get it," Ruth murmured, extracting herself from his embrace and rushing off to answer the door at once, leaving Harry alone and pouting in the kitchen.

 _We need a holiday,_ he thought grumpily, staring down at Ruth's little cat, who returned his gaze rather coolly. _Somewhere no one can find us._

From down the hall he heard the gentle sound of voices, followed by footsteps, and then Ruth was back in the kitchen, Erin Watts following along in her wake.

 _Bloody hell,_ he thought as he watched her sweeping into the room, _this can't be good._

"Miss Watts," Harry grumbled. "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, Harry, I was hoping to speak to both of you. I'm sorry for the intrusion, but it really is quite urgent."

She did at least appear contrite, much as Harry might have doubted the sincerity of her apology. Before he could berate her for interrupting his evening Ruth was by his side again. She squeezed his forearm once, lightly, offering him a stern gaze, and he fancied he could almost hear her saying _play nice with the other children._ He capitulated to her, as he always did, and did not lambaste his Section Chief, much as he might have enjoyed it.

"We were just about to eat," Ruth said as she turned her attention back to their neglected dinner. "There's enough to go around. Erin why don't you have a seat, and Harry can pour us all some wine, and then we can discuss whatever's on your mind."

"That would be lovely, Ruth, thank you," Erin said, the very soul of courtesy as she folded herself into one of the little chairs at the kitchen table.

This was not how Harry had intended to spend his evening, but he knew he had no other choice. He was beset by stubborn, single-minded women, and so he set about pouring the wine as he was bid. The sooner he got Erin talking, the sooner she could leave, and the sooner he could pick up where he'd left off with Ruth, and so he did not grumble. Aloud, at least.


	23. Chapter 23

Erin Watts was not easily embarrassed. She did not often feel uncomfortable or awkward; she had long ago learned how to walk into any room and assume control at once. Parties and gunfights and meeting rooms; it was all the same to her, and she excelled in every venue.

On this particular night, however, in this particular house, sharing a meal with these particular people, she felt nervous and out of place, for the first time in a very long while. When she'd arrived she had not counted on staying for dinner, but Ruth had offered, and she knew she had no choice but to accept, much as she might have preferred to turn tail and run. It was plain Harry didn't particularly want her there; he wasn't quite pouting, but he came very close, drinking his wine much too fast and grunting at her from the far end of the table, his eyes flickering over to Ruth roughly every two minutes, by Erin's estimation. She had, however inadvertently, apparently ruined his plans for a quiet evening in with Ruth, and that thought alone was enough to send the color rising in her cheeks, to have her reaching for her wine glass once again.

While Harry glowered at Erin, Ruth simply played hostess, finishing up the final preparations on their meal and carrying it over to the table, making sure they had all they needed before she folded herself primly into her chair and dropped her gaze to her own plate, saying nothing. The silence in the room was palpable, a living thing seated in that empty fourth chair, taunting Erin even as she tried to order her thoughts. What would their evening have entailed, she couldn't help but wonder, if she hadn't turned up on their doorstep? Harry was looking rather casual, sitting there in his shirtsleeves and bare feet, his shoes and jacket discarded by the front door. It seemed strange, that the pair of them might engage in something so domestic, so normal as a quiet dinner at home. _And then what?_ Erin wondered as her eyes flickered back and forth between the pair of them. Did they turn on the telly, snuggle down on the sofa together? Somehow she didn't think so; no, she decided, they probably sat in different armchairs, Harry drinking his whiskey and listening to a scratchy old record while Ruth read her book until they were both ready to mount the stairs and head for bed. Despite herself Erin smiled, just a little, to think of them whiling away the hours thus, quiet and relaxed and content to simply be near one another.

 _I'd best leave them to it,_ she thought, feeling a strange surge of fondness for the two battered spooks she'd joined for supper. Harry could be a right bastard, sometimes, curt and gruff and demanding, but his hard eyes softened every time he looked at Ruth. And Ruth, Erin thought, was quite lovely, gentle with the junior staff and eager to help, possessed of a boundless intellect and not a shred of ego. They made an unlikely pair, to be sure, but seeing them together they somehow seemed to fit, seemed to belong one with the other. If Erin was going to leave and let them enjoy their night alone, however, she would first have to address the matter that had brought her to their door in the first place, much as she dreaded it.

"I am sorry to barge in like this," she began, pushing her food around the plate with her fork, not yet taking a bite. "I just wanted to speak to the both of you, and I don't know that we'll have time tomorrow."

"It's quite all right," Ruth assured her gently. Harry made an incredulous noise in the back of his throat but any barbed comments he might have loosed died on his tongue, stolen away by a single, reproachful look from his lover.

 _Oh Christ,_ Erin thought, her cheeks burning. _Best not dwell on that._

"I have some concerns about Anatoly Fedorov."

"That makes three of us," Harry grumbled, reaching out to refill his wine glass. It was all right for him, Erin supposed, to get sloshed on a weeknight; after all, he was the one who'd committed treason and been suspended and somehow miraculously emerged with his position intact. He was the one in the fishbowl office, he was the one who held all the cards. Erin might be reproached, for doing the same, but the rules were different for the boss spook, and she resented him for it, just a little.

"We were in such a rush to identify the substance on the flowers yesterday, and once we realized they were harmless we were in such a hurry to reopen the Home Office, and somewhere in the chaos the actual examination of the flowers was delayed. The results came through to me today, though, and it's alarming. There was a bug planted in the vase, Harry."

At those words her boss's entire demeanor changed. He was no longer a grumbling old man, bitter about the interruption to his peaceful evening; his posture straightened and his eyes narrowed and the aura of strength, of power, of latent danger with which he carried himself on the Grid made a sudden reappearance, washing over Erin all at once. It was all too easy, to be swept up in the tenderness he displayed toward Ruth, and forget that he was a killer, a liar, the best spy Erin had ever seen, but in that moment he became all of those things once again, and Erin felt the slightest twinge of jealousy, wondering if she would ever be able to cloak herself in authority in the effortless, unquestionable way he did.

"It was small, and wrapped in some kind of waterproof casing at the bottom of the vase. I think we can safely assume that while Fedorov didn't necessarily intend to cause the evacuation of the Home Office, he did intend to spy on Ruth, and that makes him dangerous."

"That bloody-"

"Harry," Ruth cut across him quietly, reaching out to calm him with a gentle hand on his forearm.

Harry gave in to her at once, taking a steadying breath and silencing his diatribe. _There are different kinds of power,_ Erin mused as she watched them, their eyes catching and holding one another, a silent communication she could not understand taking place between them. Harry's power was raw and aggressive, but Ruth had a power all her own. People listened, when she spoke, went out of their way to do whatever she asked just to make her happy, deferred to her and treated her with a reverence she had never demanded and yet so plainly deserved. And that power had served her well, had kept her alive through all the tormented years she spent at Thames House, secured her a comfortable, prestigious posting on the Home Secretary's staff, and made this titan of a man beside her bow his head, and let her take the lead.

"He admitted outright that he sent the flowers, when I spoke to him today," Ruth continued, turning her attention back to Erin, her eyes sapphire-bright beneath her furrowed brow. "Either he doesn't know we found the bug, or he does, and he doesn't care. Whichever it is, I don't like it."

"There's more," Erin told her regretfully, watching the way Ruth's eyes sought out Harry's face once more, her expression grave and concerned. And Erin experienced another flash of jealousy, then, for the way these two could lean on one another, trust in one another, comfort one another, wholly and completely. Erin had felt that kind of connection herself, once, had clung to a man who helped her make sense of the world, a man who left her all too soon. It had been three years, since Rosie's father died, taken down by enemy fire in a desert on the other side of the world, and Erin still missed him every day. Still, much as she might envy the love that bound Harry and Ruth together, she was happy for them, as well. They deserved a bit of happiness, after everything.

"Since the Home Office was evacuated, the Russians were on their own yesterday. Fedorov managed to slip past his security officers, but we tracked him on CCTV. He met with Paul Hadley, while the rest of us were scrambling around."

Harry hummed softly, somehow both surprised and triumphant. "So there is something to this Hadley business," he mused, steepling his fingers together on the table the way he so often did on the Grid. "I would be very interested to know what they were discussing."

"So would I," Ruth murmured. Her face had grown pale, and Erin rather thought she could understand why. With Hadley came Cotterdam, the fiasco that had cost Ruth two years of her life and untold heartbreak, torn her away from Harry and her home only to be returned amidst blood and horror. Erin had read the reports, the official accounting of Ruth's exile and the time she and Harry spent at the mercy of the rogue Indian agent Mani, and in those pages she had found more than enough to leave her heartbroken on Ruth's behalf. That Ruth had continued on at Five at all seemed to Erin to be a wondrous thing, a sign of some inner strength that Erin had not previously given her credit for. _Then again,_ Erin thought, _perhaps she only came back to be close to Harry again._

"I've been reading over transcripts of the tribunal, Harry," Erin said, reaching beneath her to retrieve the small briefcase she carried with her. "I cross referenced them with the corresponding reports, and Tariq helped me build a timeline." She fished through the pile of paperwork in her case, coming up at last with a small chart that Tariq had drawn up. "This is an accounting of every event that instigated an internal investigation into Section D from 2006 onward." She slid the paper across the table, where it came to rest between Harry and Ruth, so they both could see. "The cock up in Tehran, Lucas North's return, Ros Myers's involvement with Yalta, Adam Carter's death, _Kachimov's_ death-"

"Yes, thank you, Erin, I can read," Harry said tartly. Feeling properly chastised, Erin promptly closed her mouth, though inwardly she chafed at being spoken to like a child. There were moments when Harry reminded her of her own father, drunk and withholding and grim, but then he always seemed to surprise her, showing a level of concern and dedication for his team she had never received from any Section Head she'd worked for previously. He was a mystery, was Harry, but it seemed to Erin that the simple fact that Ruth put up with him was proof enough that somewhere beneath the bluster there lay the heart of a good man.

Ruth had been reviewing the list, too, and as Erin watched comprehension and horror slowly dawned in her eyes. She had put it together, then, had found the thread that Erin herself had been so shocked to discover.

"Oh, God, Harry," Ruth breathed.

"The Russians were behind it all," Erin confirmed grimly. "Every step of the way, every move that was made to bring you down, Harry, the Russians were right there. Feeding us false intelligence, waking up old sleeper agents, paying off some of our own people. We have a mole of our own, in the FSB's London operation, and when Callum met with him, he gave us this." She reached back into the briefcase, and pulled out the most damning piece of evidence they'd managed to locate so far, handing it off to Ruth, who took it in trembling hands. "It's a communique from Moscow to Viktor Sarkisiian, authorizing him to sell you to Amish Mani before taking early retirement."

At those words the paper fluttered out of Ruth's grasp, sliding off the table and landing soundlessly on the floor. Ruth gave a little gasp, her eyes wild and afraid, and stood up abruptly, her chair scraping across the tiles with a great clatter and sending her little cat fleeing from the room.

" _No,"_ Ruth said, her voice small and frightened.

"Erin, will you excuse us for a moment?" Harry said sharply as he dragged himself to his feet, his hand rising up as if to reach out to Ruth and then collapsing uselessly back by his side. Erin nodded and slipped from the room as quickly as she could, pacing down the hallway and trying not to eavesdrop, no matter how badly she might want to. This was a private trauma they shared, a horror Erin herself had not experienced, and she knew that whatever conversation they were having now, she had no part in it. In a way she could understand Ruth's distress, though; it was one thing, to think that she had been kidnapped, tortured, forced to watch her husband's murder at the behest of a few greedy, opportunistic souls who had sensed weakness and pounced. It was another thing altogether to learn that her grief, her pain had been the result of the deliberate machinations of a foreign power, that men on the other side of the world had sat together in a room and decided that her personal agony would suit their greater purposes. Until now Ruth had believed that those responsible for that tragedy were dead, forced to pay penance for their sins, but now she knew the awful truth.

Somewhere, out there, those same shadowy figures were alive and well and plotting her demise once more. Yes, Erin thought, she could not blame Ruth for her distress. Erin imagined she would rather feel the same, if their roles were reversed.


	24. Chapter 24

Harry waited until Erin had left the room; as soon as he was certain that she was no longer observing them he crossed to Ruth's side, reaching out to touch her and then drawing back, uncertain as to whether or not she would accept any affection from him just now. For years the events in that warehouse had loomed over them, a terrible miasma of pain and grief they could not break through. Though Ruth had been returned to him that day she had been stolen from him, too, had retreated inside her private agony, too distant for him to reach, assured of her own damnation, and his along with it. The day that George died a piece of Ruth's heart had died with him, Harry knew, the piece that recalled her own goodness, the piece that brought the sparkle of delight to her eyes before, when she was young and still full of dreams. In the aftermath she had been left broken and devastated, retreating from him at every turn, and he had been sure that he would never again enjoy the sunlight of her smile shining upon his face. Harry had always believed that it was that day, that horrible day, that led to Ruth rejecting his proposal, telling him they could never be more together and believing it somehow. Losing George, blaming herself for that loss, had overwhelmed her utterly.

But they had persevered, somehow, had come through their trials and tribulations; they'd spent the last few days tangled up in one another's arms, fighting their way through the madness of their daily lives to achieve a new normal, a life in which they were together in ways Harry had only ever dreamed about, and never realized before now. He had known, in the back of his mind, that they would have to talk about it at some point, the sun-drenched days Ruth had spent in the arms of her Cypriot lover, the cold, callous words Harry had spoken in a desperate attempt to save the boy who could have been her son, the grief, the blame, the loss of everything that could have been for Ruth, if only Harry didn't love her. He just hadn't expected it to be now, like this, when Ruth was standing in the corner of the kitchen in their little safe house trying valiantly not to weep, when their world was crumbling in on itself and Harry could think of no words to soothe the ache in his lover's chest.

"Ruth," he breathed, her name the only word he could speak. It all made a terrible amount of sense, really, that one person - or one group of people - could be responsible for all the calamity he had endured over the last few years. There was a certain logic to it, a rhythm to the atrocities; someone was trying to get rid of him, and each time they failed, they only emerged with a new, even more ingenious plan like some sort of nefarious hydra hell bent on his destruction. That Ruth had somehow fallen victim to the machinations of his shadowy enemy tore at his heartstrings, left him bitter and violently angry, determined to seek his vengeance even as he was determined to comfort her, this woman he loved better than anyone else in the world.

"Ruth, please," he tried again, when she did not speak.

She turned to him then, tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes, fear and pain radiating from her dear sweet face.

"How could it be, Harry?" she asked softly, her voice dripping with the agony of one betrayed. "How could they do this to us? All of this? All of the people we've lost, all the lives destroyed...how?"

"I've been thinking about that," he answered slowly, gathering himself to face the problem at hand, trying to work through the mess when his own heart was aching. It would seem that Ruth was of the same mind, that she was less concerned with pouring over their tormented past than with the answering the question at hand, and for her sake he would try, would put aside their personal feelings in search of a solution to the problem that faced him. Later, when this was done, when they were safe, perhaps they could take a very long holiday, and find the time to speak to one another all the truths they kept hidden in their hearts. "Each time there's been a threat to me, an attempt to take me out of the picture, the Russians have been there. Either deliberately operating against me, or trying to push their own agenda while I'm distracted with some other nightmare. There is someone we haven't been thinking about, in all of this. A piece on the chessboard I'm ashamed to say I entirely overlooked."

And it was true; Harry _had_ been distracted, by Albany and his suspension and subsequent reinstatement, by the flush of Ruth's skin under his hands and the hail of bullets in his kitchen, and he had forgotten the question that plagued him, prior to the arrival of the Russian delegation.

"Ilya Gavrick," he said, hating the way Ruth flinched when he spoke the name. She knew all too well what Gavrick meant to him; she'd taken a stroll through his personnel file, years before, and upon her return he had spoke to her of his time in Berlin, his bitter enmity with his Russian counterpart. At the time he had only been recalling his history with Sugarhorse, trying to explain to her what had befallen Connie James, trying to explain the shattered state of his team.

"But Gavrick bowed out of the negotiations," Ruth pointed out, taking a deep, shuddering breath as though trying to pull herself together. "His wife was in an accident, and he sent Fedorov in his place."

"Exactly," Harry grumbled. "Gavrick isn't the sort of man to step aside and let one of his rivals take his place, just because his wife was injured. What was this accident? Does anyone know? And even if, even if he stayed away for legitimate reasons, he's become a powerful figure in Moscow politics. The man detests me, and he knows I'll stand in the way of any international agenda he hopes to implement. The best way for him to achieve his goals is to remove me from the equation."

Ruth frowned at him, but Harry was full of fire, now, certain that he had stumbled across the truth at last, and he worried at it like a dog with a bone, completely missing the look of incredulity in his lover's eyes.

"Think about it, Ruth. When Lucas North was sent back - my God, we'd been trying for eight years to bring him home. Why then? It wasn't because we offered them a good deal, I can assure you. We had offered them much more appealing exchanges in the past, and they always turned us down. But he's sent back, and immediately there's a terror attack? And Albany - someone sent Lucas after Albany, just a few months before these negotiations were set to start."

"Harry." Her voice was low and soft, as it always was, and it drew him up short, though his heart was pounding in his chest, his mind spinning with the implications of it. Zaf, Adam, Jo, Ros; each of them had died in the midst of horror and calamity, casualties of terror, but each time, the Russians had been lurking on the periphery, waiting for him to lose his focus just long enough for them to close the trap, and take him down, too. The ecstasy of discovery left him breathless and pacing, his hands clenched in fists by his sides; if only he could somehow find himself in a room with Gavrick, he would extract payment for every one of his losses from the flesh of his most mortal enemy.

"Please don't get carried away with this," she pleaded, her eyes shining up at him. She took one step, two, until she was close enough to touch him, her hand curling around his bicep and her face just inches from his own, worried and afraid. "It's only one possible explanation. You can't even prove it was Gavrick. Yes, he's a powerful man and yes, he hates you, but you can't -"

"Someone sent that communique to Sarkisiian, Ruth," Harry growled, though the touch of her hand upon his arm moderated his fervor somewhat. "Someone authorized him to sell me to Mani. Someone activated Tiresias, someone gave Connie James the go-ahead to take me down, someone called for the destruction of the Sugarhorse network. Someone who was active in Moscow during the Cold War years, someone who knew enough about me, and my connections, and the best way to discredit me. Who else could it be, Ruth?"

"I don't know, and that's what frightens me," she answered sadly.

 _This_ was what they did best of all, he thought, distracted from his own feverish thoughts by her quiet voice. He bulled ahead, angry and determined, and Ruth caught him by the hand, slowed him down, presented him with the all the information and demanded more from him that this impulsive, reactionary violence. They bounced ideas of one another, worked together to slog through the detritus, to separate the relevant information from the chaff, and he felt a sudden burst of love for her, this woman who could do what no one else before her had ever seemed to manage, and regulate his tempers. He covered her hand with his own, still resting against his arm, and smiled at her softly, expelling a little sigh and with it all the furious energy that had previously fogged his mind.

"You're right, of course," he told her. "We need more information. We need to know who's pulling the strings in Moscow."

"I could call Frank Holland," Ruth mused, lifting her hand from his arm and lowering it down to her side, interlocking her fingers with his own and carrying his hand down with hers. "I think we've established a good rapport. He might be able to tell me what Six knows about the current state of affairs in Russia."

"That's a good start," Harry agreed. _My Ruth,_ he thought proudly, _my brilliant Ruth._ Though she had never been a proper field agent Ruth had cultivated her own little network of informants, had used her beguiling eyes and charming smile to garner information from every corner of the intelligence services, and with her new position it would seem she had only grown more powerful in that regard. Yes, Harry thought that Six would prefer to talk to Ruth, rather than to him, and he would gladly leave her to it. He did have a few tricks left up his sleeve, however.

"I have a contact of my own who I think is uniquely well-placed to help us," he told her slyly. He drew the moment out, savoring it, the flickering of suspicion in the depths of her eyes. _She's going to love this,_ he thought as he watched her. For many years he had cultivated an asset or two of his own, off the books and unbeknownst to anyone, had developed his own network to help him when traditional methods failed, and he was determined to call upon them now.

"What aren't you telling me, Harry?" she asked shrewdly.

"As it turns out, an old friend of mine is in Moscow at this very moment. On his own business, of course, but he may be able to ferret out who's behind all this."

"Harry." Her voice carried a tone of exasperated warning, and Harry couldn't help himself; he leaned across the space between them, and brushed his lips against her own, softly, just once, just because he could, because she was beautiful and willful and brilliant and the very center of his universe. He would keep no secrets from her, but he couldn't help teasing her, every now and then, if only to see the flush of pink rising across her pale cheeks.

"An old friend of _ours_ , actually," he said, somewhat smugly.

"Harry Pearce, if you don't tell me what on earth is going on-"

"I think it's time we spoke to Tom Quinn."

The grin that spread slowly across Ruth's face in response was positively radiant.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: It may be about a week before I'm able to update again as I'll be traveling for the holiday (Happy Thanksgiving to the American contingent!) but I will be back with more as soon as I can!**

* * *

So much had happened, in the years since Ruth had last spoken to Tom Quinn. So much death, so much loss, so much grief; there were joys, as well, moments of triumph and success and even a moment or two of quietly celebrated love, but it was always the losses that sprang to mind, when she tried to imagine what she would say to him if she ever saw him again. Zoe, Danny, Adam, and then all the others he hadn't yet had a chance to meet, Fiona, Zaf, Jo, Ros, Lucas. Her own personal grief, with names all its own; George, and Nico, and Harry, always Harry. She still thought of Tom sometimes, remembered his wit and his kindness, remembered sitting beside him on a bench, feeling young and fierce and incurably naive as she defended herself and her work, remembered standing next to him in a dim corridor, pleading with him to save them all. There were days when Ruth felt she herself was composed of nothing but memories, and Tom had played a role in more than a few. What would he think of her now, she wondered, the woman she had become after all she had endured? And what would she think of him, of the man he had made of himself after his conscience exploded and he left their home behind to seek out greener pastures of his own?

Harry called Erin back to the kitchen, and refilled their wine glasses before they all three settled around the table once more. It had been a long and trying evening, and as Harry slumped into his chair beside Ruth she reached for his hand without even realizing it, twining their fingers together and giving him a reassuring little squeeze. Harry offered her a tired smile in response, bringing their hands to rest against his thigh, and Erin did her best to appear utterly absorbed in the study of her wine, though she could not hide the little smile that played around the corners of her mouth at this sudden, unexpected display of affection. That smile made Ruth's heart flutter uncomfortably, but she held tight to Harry, unwilling to let go of him now, not for anyone or anything. That their relationship had become common knowledge was a reality Ruth was very slowly adjusting to; their friends were happy for them, she knew, and she tried to find comfort in that, where before the certainty that others were discussing her private life had always filled her full of dread. It was something to be happy about, she reminded herself sternly, that she and Harry had come through their calamity whole and well and still desperately in love with one another, and it ought to be celebrated, even now, when everything around them had erupted into chaos.

"Tom Quinn was Section Chief, several years ago," Harry began, his voice low and rumbling beside Ruth, pulling her out of her disjointed thoughts and back into the present once more. "He was a fine agent, and a fine man, but he chose to go his own way."

 _That's one way to put it,_ Ruth thought glumly, remembering a road side decommissioning and a livid Harry.

"And you're still in contact with him? Harry, that's a violation of almost every-"

"Erin, one of these days you're going to have learn the difference between breaking the law and committing a crime."

Ruth almost choked on her wine, watching as Erin's mouth clamped shut and her eyebrows shot up into her hairline. As ever Harry's voice was firm and brooked no argument, and Ruth rather got the sense that Erin wasn't used to be spoken to so bluntly. Likewise, Ruth was certain that this was the first time any superior had ever indicated to Erin that some things in life were more important than following the rules. As she took in the appraising look dancing across Erin's face Ruth couldn't help but recall Zoe, and the efforts Harry had gone to secure her freedom, and likewise the lengths to which the team - under his direction - had gone to keep Ruth herself out of jail. He still spoke to Malcolm, she knew, and she had not been altogether shocked to learn of his continued correspondence with Tom Quinn. He'd snuck Ros Myers out of the country and put her to work in Russia, and he'd quietly arranged to pay for Jo's mother's medical care. That was the thing about Harry; as stubborn, as irascible, as downright dangerous as he could be, Harry looked after his own, and once someone became a member of his little tribe, they were never truly cast out unless they chose to be. Rules and regulations and laws meant very little to Harry when compared with the cost to human life, and perhaps it was time for Erin to pull her nose out of the rulebook, and consider the broader ramifications of her actions for once. She'd never heard Harry so clearly express his beliefs, that dichotomy between the dictation of the law and what he knew to be right in his own heart, but as he spoke those words she realized he had given voice to his very own personal mantra. Sometimes doing the right thing meant breaking the law, and Harry was no stranger to that particular conundrum.

"Tom is a good asset to have. He's set himself up in the private sector, and he's become rather successful. He has international contacts and the ability to move around the globe without arousing suspicion and without filing any paperwork, neither of which we can do. What's more, he has an active agent in Moscow as we speak."

There was something about Harry's eyes, that glimmer that shone in their honey-rich depths when he was a step ahead of his opponents, that gave Ruth pause. He knew this agent, she realized; whoever Tom had placed in Moscow, Harry knew them well, and trusted them. Though Ruth was a bit miffed that he had not yet confided that particular piece of information to her she was glad of it nonetheless. They needed all the friends they could get.

"So what, you're just going to ring him up and-"

"And tell him everything we know, and beg him for help, yes," Harry finished for her curtly, taking a sip of his wine and eyeing her expectantly, no doubt waiting for some new rebuke to follow. It was unorthodox, unsanctioned and probably unwise, to turn their safety over to a free agent, but there was no one Ruth could think of whom she would trust with her life more than Tom Quinn, save for Harry himself.

"Right, then," Erin said, leaning back in her chair. "Let's do it."

She expected to be present for the phone call, Ruth realized as she watched Erin, all casual confidence despite the obvious power disparity at play. Harry held all the cards and all the authority, and yet there Erin sat, pushing her luck, making silent demands of him. It was the sort of thing Adam would have done, Ruth thought, hiding her smile as best she could; he would have smiled, maybe said something glib, but he would have taken the same liberty, and waited just as Erin was now for Harry to make the next move.

"I will brief you in the morning, Miss Watts," Harry said dismissively, rising from his chair and turning his back on Erin as he crossed the kitchen to deposit his glass in the sink.

 _Point, Harry,_ Ruth thought, sparing a single sympathetic glance for the disgruntled woman on the other side of the table before rising to her feet as well. With a bare few words Harry had told Erin plainly that she had not yet earned his entire confidence, but Ruth rather thought Erin should see that as a challenge, rather than a total loss. _Keep at it,_ Ruth urged her silently as she heard Erin rise from the table, her stilettos clicking sharply against the tiles as she let herself out of the house; _trust must be earned, so don't step back now._

"Would it have been so difficult to let her stay for the call, Harry?" Ruth asked him quietly as she came to stand beside him. He sighed and wrapped his arm around her, drawing her close and pressing a gentle kiss against the top of her head.

"She needs to learn that she's in no position to make demands," he answered. "If she had asked, I might have let her stay. What that girl needs is a reminder of where she stands in the order of things."

"That _girl_ is a grown woman and a mother, Harry," Ruth said reproachfully, though she made no move to leave the circle of his arms. For a moment she felt rather as if they were parents, discussing a particularly unruly teenager, but it wasn't the first time that rather unsettling thought had crossed her mind. The team turned to Harry for guidance, and when they found themselves on the receiving end of his displeasure, they turned to Ruth for comfort. That had been the way of it for years now.

"She's barely older than Catherine," Harry grumbled.

Ruth sucked in a sharp breath at those words, as the reality of their situation struck her square in the chest. In all the many years that she had known him, Harry had spoken to her of his children only a bare few times. There was the briefing during the November Committee fiasco, though Ruth supposed that hardly counted as he'd spoken to all of them, not just to her, and he'd only done it because he had to. Upon her return from Cyprus he'd briefly mentioned rushing off to Lebanon to rescue his daughter from some disaster, but he had not gone into any detail. Aside from those painfully brief, painfully awkward conversations, he'd made no mention of either his son or daughter, to her or to anyone else to her knowledge. This whole part of his life, this massive, monstrous piece of himself he kept hidden away from everyone. And yet, here they stood, clinging to one another in the kitchen, and Harry had mentioned his daughter as casually as if they spoke about her all the time, as if Ruth knew her well.

 _This is real,_ she thought in sheer delight, sheer terror. _This is really happening._ After eight long years of dancing around one another, they had finally made it. They were lovers, people who shared kisses and meals and talked about their lives, who wrapped their arms around one another and swayed by a sink full of dirty dishes on a weeknight. It was monumental and mind-bogglingly ordinary, and Ruth was equal parts giddy and afraid. She did not know how to do this, how to be Harry's lover where for so long she had barely been his friend, but by God she was determined to try.

"Still, though," she murmured, feeling that she had to say _something_ , and yet not at all prepared to share with him the revelation that had momentarily sucked the breath from her lungs.

Would she meet Catherine one day? She wondered as Harry disentangled himself from her and made his way back down the hall, muttering about a pay-as-you-go mobile he'd stashed in his bag. Would Harry tell his daughter about the woman who shared his bed, the long and bloody road they'd walked to reach this point together? Somehow she couldn't picture it, Harry having a heart-to-heart with his tempestuous daughter, and somehow she didn't mind. There would be time enough for sorting things out later, for pouring over family histories and re-opening old wounds. For now, perhaps it was best to just enjoy one another without worrying about what came next.

"Are you ready?" Harry asked as he came shuffling back into the kitchen, mobile in hand.

Ruth smiled at him softly, this man she loved with her whole heart; he was tired and his face was scruffy with the day's growth of stubble, his shirt wrinkled and his sleeves rolled up, his feet bare and the thinness of his hair and the weary lines upon his face undeniable in the harsh light dangling overhead, and yet she had never wanted anyone more. She walked right up to him and threaded her arm through his, offering him one brief, gentle smile before she led him down the hall to the sitting room. Somewhere along the way he realized what she was doing, and he slumped onto the sofa with no prompting, holding out his arm so that Ruth could slide beneath it. She tucked her legs up underneath her and rested her head against his shoulder, warm and safe in his embrace.

"Now I'm ready," she told him.

Harry kissed her cheek and dialed the phone, pressing the speaker button so they could both hear it ring as they waited with baited breath for Tom to answer. Though she was still terribly afraid, terribly shaken by Erin's revelation, she took comfort from Harry's presence, and from the thought of bringing Tom onside. With the help of the people she loved, she was certain there was nothing they could not do.


	26. Chapter 26

Ruth was sleeping. In sleep she was still, the lines that often formed between her brows, at the corners of her eyes smooth now, her pale face untroubled as she trod through the land of dreams. In the dark and silence of the safehouse bedroom Harry watched her, drunk on the sight of her blissful repose, and counted himself a lucky man, that such a woman would share her bed and her life with him. Only a few weeks before he had thought such a scene quite beyond his grasp, believed that with the words _it was unfair of you to love me_ Ruth had, quite succinctly, put an end to his every dream of a life with her. And yet, here she lay, sprawled on her stomach beside him, dark hair tumbling across the pillow cases, her face turned towards him, her hand reaching out for him, even in sleep. That night at the Russian embassy had been a beautiful gift, had broken down every wall that separated her heart from his own, and in the tumultuous days since he had drawn closer to her than he had ever dared hope before.

And yet, his enemies remained on the periphery of their every moment together, fear snapping at the pair of them like hungry dogs. Harry could not bear it, if he finally had the chance to hold her, to taste the delirious, trembling heat of her, to reach out with both hands and grasp desperately at the phantasmal hope of a life together, only to have her ripped away from him, for good and all this time, damned by his own sins, his insidious chickens come home to roost. She was everything to him, dear and sweet and good and kind and strong as steel, and he did not think he had it in him, to carry on if she were taken from him now.

 _He_ had done this to her, he realized as he watched her sleeping, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the starlight-dappled sparkling skin of her back smooth and soft and calling out to him. If it had not been for him, for his connection to her, she would be safe and well in her bed at home, untroubled by thoughts of murderous gunmen and scheming Russians. All of her pain, all of her grief, was his own doing; men he had fought, men he had wronged, men he had threatened sought to use her to hurt him, to tear him into pieces by destroying the thing he loved best in all the world. There were dark deeds in his past, moments of terror and chaos that kept him awake in the night, still, all these many years later, and he could not bear the thought of Ruth paying the price for his transgressions with her own life.

And yet he could no more distance himself from her than he could remove the beating heart from his chest and deliver it to Ilya Gavrick on a silver platter. She was part of him now, a burr buried beneath his skin, too deep for him to pluck her out. Even during the long dark days of her exile she had been with him, her voice whispering in the back of his mind, her face haunting his dreams, guiding him through when she was not there to offer her counsel in person. He could not shake her, but nor did he want to. Though he feared the best thing for Ruth might be to leave his side and never see him again, he could not bring himself to make that sacrifice.

Unable to sleep, taunted by memories, he tried to focus on the matter at hand, tried to see his way through the labyrinth that stood before them. Erin had made sense of the senseless, had seen a pattern in the chaos, and had neatly uncovered his greatest fear, realized. Each of the moments she had isolated - Adam Carter's death, Sugarhorse, Mani, Albany - had seemed at the time to be contained incidents of terror, with no rhyme or reason. And yet she had seen the truth of it; someone, somewhere, was after him, and had been for years. That they had not succeeded in removing Harry from the picture offered him very little reassurance, as he brooded on all the many lives lost while he himself carried on. If only his mysterious enemy had done away with him the first time, perhaps those young agents whose losses he mourned would still be living, perhaps Ruth would be happy in the Cypriot sun with a dark haired child of her own. Perhaps it would have been better for everyone, if only Harry had died when he was supposed to.

 _It was my turn, Harry._

It had been Harry's turn, a hundred times over, and yet, still he remained.

The call to Tom Quinn hadn't been terribly enlightening; his former Section Chief had asked all the right questions, taken note of all the players, and assured Harry that he was on the case, that he would ring back as soon as he had confirmation of his suspicions. Harry took very little comfort in that; he knew what Tom was bound to find. It would be Gavrick; nothing else made sense. Gavrick had been a thorn in Harry's side for nearly thirty years, since the heady days of Berlin when Harry had bedded and very nearly turned the man's wife, very nearly absconded with his son and retired from the Service in disgrace. Jim Coaver had disabused him of that notion forthwith, had uncovered Elena's deceit in time to save Harry from that personal calamity. Jim had discovered, to Harry's horror, that Elena had been working for the KGB all along, her seduction of Harry and use of her own son to torment him sanctioned by her own husband. Even now, decades later, it boggled Harry's mind, to think that Ilya Gavrick had sent his own wife into Harry's bed, for the sake of his country. Harry Pearce was a hard man, a man who had given everything he had in Service to the realm, but he knew that he would sooner die than do such a thing, to turn his beloved Ruth over to some foul foreign operative. That was what made Gavrick so bloody dangerous; nothing was sacred to him, no line in the sand too odious for him to cross. Gavrick would do anything, to achieve his ends.

And the only obstacle in his path, it would seem, was Harry himself.

With a sigh he rolled over, draping himself across Ruth's back, kissing her shoulder gently to call her up from the depths of her dreams as the sun began to rise. Tom Quinn was working hard, to uncover the information they needed, Ruth would meet with Frank Holland and pick his brain regarding Six's operations in Russia, Erin and Dimitri were trying to track down the mysterious Paul Hadley, and the techies were working round the clock, trying to uncover the monster who'd nearly killed Ruth and Harry both. There was nothing for it but to rise and face another day, to don his armor and once more take up the fight.

* * *

Harry was quiet that morning, pensive, and it set Ruth's teeth on edge. She worried about him when he got like this, withdrawn into his own personal hell, too far away for her to reach. Though he had woken her with tender kisses, his hands gentle on her skin, sinking himself inside her while she shivered and moaned and fell apart in his embrace, once they were out of bed he became a different man, distant and unknowable. He was brooding on Ilya Gavrick, Ruth knew; the moment he had spoken the man's name aloud his eyes had darkened, and no light had returned to them since. Ruth knew a thing or two about Harry and Gavrick, had perused his personnel file at length and uncovered the veiled references to the man and his wife and Harry's unfortunate acquaintance with them, and though she could agree that Gavrick made a likely suspect, she wasn't prepared to pin all these crimes on that one man. There was something bigger happening here, she felt, bigger than the personal enmity between two old Cold War spies, but she did not dare say such a thing to Harry, not when he was in this mood. Let him brood, she told herself, let him chew on Gavrick like a dog with a bone. He had chosen his path, and Ruth would follow her own.

She kissed his cheek and told him she would see him that afternoon for their next meeting with the Russians, and then she slipped away, her heart longing for him but her mind counseling prudence. Sometimes what Harry needed, more than poking and prodding and endless nagging, was a bit of time to orient himself, to think through the problem on his own before reaching the conclusion Ruth had presented him. He was an irascible old bugger, was Harry, but she loved him with everything she had.

The car drove her to Vauxhall, and when she disembarked Will was waiting for her, giving a little nod to Marks, the security officer who had watched over her through the long dark hours of the night. As the car peeled off Will assumed his usual place, a step or two behind her, his eyes roving and watchful.

"Quiet night?" he asked her softly.

Ruth very nearly laughed aloud, though no joy filled her. Her night had been the opposite of quiet; Erin's revelation had exploded in her mind like a bombshell, left her shaking and ill at ease. Tom Quinn had re-entered the picture and Harry had withdrawn into himself, and Ruth was left with nothing but terrible, burning questions. She gave a little hum in response, not wanting to offend her solicitious watchman, but did not elaborate. To his credit, Will did not push her.

In just a few moments she was ushered into Frank Holland's plushly carpeted office, the man himself standing behind his desk, motioning for her to take a seat.

"I was surprised to hear from you, so early this morning," Holland said, smiling at her convivally as Will closed the door behind her and she folded herself into the designated chair.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," Ruth answered demurely, smoothing her skirt over her legs and watching Holland like a hawk.

The man's grin turned positively wolfish as he sunk into his own chair. "I'm happy to. Any _friend_ of Harry's is a friend of mine." He did not leer at her, but then, he did not need to. Though they had only spoken on a bare handful of occasions Ruth rather felt that she had got the measure of Frank Holland; he was a man who liked to inspire reactions in others, who said outrageous things in the hopes that his flustered counterparts would reveal some piece of intelligence to him. His motivations weren't always nefarious; he seemed almost to take an impulsive sort of delight in causing discomfort. _Let him try,_ Ruth thought, offering him a little smile. It would take more than a few untoward insinuations to get a rise out of her. That might not have been the case once, but Ruth had grown a thicker skin during the course of her service in Thames House.

"Do you feel the same way about his enemies, Mr. Holland?"

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Depends on who they are. What can I do for you, Miss Evershed?"

"The Russians," Ruth began slowly. "We have reason to believe they used their free afternoon while the Home Office was shut down to meet with a man called Paul Hadley, from Special Branch. Would you know anything about that?"

It was a gamble, laying those particular cards on the table, but Ruth and Harry had discussed it the previous evening, lying tangled up in bed together after their phone call to Tom. They couldn't know what game Hadley was playing or who was involved in it, but Frank Holland had a notorious distrust for the Russians dating back to his own Cold War service, and the relationship between Six and Special Branch was frosty at best. Ruth needed answers, but she'd have to give a little to get a little; _quid pro quo_ was the name of the game, when it came to intelligence.

In response to her question Holland pulled a face, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands together across his chest.

"Hadley," he said, his voice dripping with distaste, "is a bloody nuisance. As a junior officer he applied for secondment to Six a half a dozen times, but he was never a serious contender. Oliver Mace had a soft spot for him, though." He added this last casually, almost as an afterthought, but his eyes were watching Ruth intently all the while, waiting to see if his arrow would hit its mark.

Ruth did her best not to flinch at the sound of that name. "Of course, Mace isn't around to help him now, is he?" she said.

Holland grinned. "No, and more's the pity. I'd like to see him again, if only so I could kick his bloody arse."

Despite herself Ruth smiled, just a little. She rather felt the same.

"What I can tell you about Hadley is this: he's a bootlicker who wormed his way into a position of authority by standing on the shoulders of better men. He wants to get himself appointed to the JIC, and he has powerful friends who can help make that happen. If he met with the Russians, you can be sure it's something to do with these negotiations; likely he's working out a deal of his own, trying to strengthen his position by building international alliances separately from the rest of us."

Ruth's head was spinning; God might have been in the details, but she was drowning beneath them at present, stumbling blind. Was Hadley no more than a distraction, a self-serving rodent scurrying around after scraps? Or was he something more?

"There's the matter of the attack on Sir Harry and myself, as well," Ruth said slowly. "While I'm concerned about Hadley, we have reasons to believe the Russians may be involved in the attempt on our lives."

At those words Holland straightened in his chair and leaned towards her, his eyes intent. "You think Hadley might be involved in that? Might try to finish the job his mentor started in 2006?"

"What do you think, Frank?" Ruth asked keenly. She felt rather as if she were caught in some incomprehensible game of tennis, the ball flying back and forth between her and Frank Holland so quickly she could hardly keep up. This was what she wanted, though, when she came to work for Towers, what she lived for. The chase, the intellectual chess match, the slow piecing together of the puzzle.

"I think, Miss Evershed," he answered, shuffling through the files on his desk, "that it's a good thing you decided to have a chat with me this morning. I have something here that may interest you."

* * *

 **A/N: I know, I know, I'm sorry, terrible place to leave it! We have too much ground to cover in just one chapter, so stay tuned!**


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Apologies for the short-ish chapter, but I think when you get to the end you'll see why I chose to cut it off where I did.**

* * *

"I'm due to meet with the Russians in an hour, Erin," Harry ground out from behind clenched teeth. "Please tell me you have some new information."

There was nothing Harry hated quite so much as walking into a situation blind. He thrived on information, staying one step ahead of the curve, knowing the answer to every question he asked before he asked it. This being in the dark galled him, left him waspish and out of sorts and the prospect of meeting with the Russians yet again, without knowing what agenda they were pursuing, was untenable. Fedorov had attempted to plant a bug in Ruth's office, had met with a representative from Special Branch alone when he was meant to be tucked up safe in his embassy, and in general set Harry's teeth on edge.

Still, they had no idea who fired the shots into Harry's kitchen, and no idea what the Russians or Paul Hadley or the mysteriously edited Cotterdam report had to do with any of it. Though Harry had spent his nights lost in the blissful fires of his newfound relationship with Ruth, staying in the safehouse the night before had brought it all home to him. No matter how delightful it was, to sample the taste of Ruth's skin and hear the glorious sound of her crying out his name in passion for once, rather than in sorrow, the truth was his beloved Ruth was still very much in danger, and he seemed powerless to protect her. It had been quite some time, since Harry had felt so hopeless, and he did not care for it in the least.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Erin responded, sounding as weary and discontented as he. "The car and the bullets haven't turned up anything on our shooter, and we've combed through Paul Hadley's service records but there's nothing there to indicate why he met with the Russians. We're working on getting a bug into the embassy-"

"We need to try a new tactic," Harry cut her off, pacing around his office, absent-mindedly fiddling with his cufflinks as he went. "Arrange a meeting with Hadley."

"What?"

It was not very often that Erin's air of cool indifference slipped, but it did in that moment. She was staring at him as if he'd grown a second head, her eyebrows having retreated into her hairline. Direct confrontation was not their usual _modus operandi_ ; generally they kept their heads down and worked in the shadows, silence and stealth their greatest weapons. What Harry was suggesting carried with it a great deal of risk, but he had been playing the game much longer than Erin, and it was time that she learned to trust him.

"Hadley wants a seat on the JIC, and he fancies himself top dog at Special Branch. Use that. Feed him a line about interagency cooperation, tell him you fancy him, I don't care. Whatever it takes. Sit down with the man, and see what you can gather from his demeanor. Don't frighten him, not yet."

"You don't think he'll be suspicious?" Erin asked. She sounded rather suspicious herself, but Harry didn't have time to reassure her.

"Figure it out, Miss Watts."

With those words Harry sat himself behind his desk and quite deliberately turned his attentions to the pile of paperwork, effectively dismissing his obstinate Section Chief. She left him in a huff, but she would do as she was bid; she was just as curious, just as tenacious as Harry himself. With a bit of guidance - and the removal of her pretentions and her insistent clinging to the rule book - she might one day make a fine leader for the section, and so Harry had, in his own way, given her an opportunity to prove herself. Yes, she had been presented with a task she found distasteful, but the manner in which she chose to tackle this particular obstacle would, he felt, do much to determine the outcome of her future with Counterterrorism, in addition to bringing him some much needed answers about one of the many players currently crowding the board.

* * *

"Where did you get this?" Ruth demanded, raising her gaze from the file she held in trembling hands to stare at Frank Holland in a state of incredulous shock.

"A friend of a friend thought it might be of interest to me," he said expansively, stretching in his chair like a lazy cat lounging in the sun. "I had intended to pass it along to Harry, but since you're here I thought I might as well go ahead and give it to you. I imagine it'll end up in his hands either way."

Ruth ignored that particular barb; she was in no mood to play Frank's games at present, to defend herself against an innuendo intended to unsettle her. The file drew her attention once more, and she returned to devouring it hungrily, leafing through the pages. It contained photocopies of two decades' worth of memos and communiques, written in Russian and diligently translated into English. The dates and details of each corresponded to a moment of calamity for Harry and his team, and taking altogether, they seemed to serve as proof of Erin's theory of the Russians having been behind the many attempts on his life. What was more, they also seemed to suggest that the orders for each of those operations had come direct from Ilya Gavrick, as Harry suspected. Some were written in code, and some were plain as day, some handwritten on scraps of paper, some typed on official letterhead. If they were legitimate, they would represent a great boon to the investigation into the shooting at Harry's house, but looking at them now, Ruth couldn't be at all sure of their provenance. Frank Holland appeared to be on side, but what if he was playing a game of his own? The problem, as Ruth saw it, was that she didn't know who to trust, but she was quickly finding herself forced into a position where she would have to take a leap of faith, and trust _someone._ Was Holland the one?

"This one here," Ruth said slowly, pulling out the final page.

"Ah yes, they told me you were good, Miss Evershed, and now I can see why. That's exactly the reason I chose to give this file to you."

It was the most recent, most damning piece of evidence. " _Giselle injured,"_ Ruth read aloud.

"Based on the information we've been able to gather so far, we believe that _Giselle_ is Elena Gavrick's codename. Apparently she was a ballet dancer, in her youth."

 _Of course she bloody was,_ Ruth thought moodily. It was bad enough, knowing that agents of a foreign government were trying to kill her. She really didn't have time to spend brooding on the fact that Harry's former lover had been a beautiful ballet dancer.

She continued reading.

" _Kholstomer-"_

"We believe that refers to Ilya Gavrick," Holland supplied helpfully.

Ruth nodded to show she'd heard. " _Kholstomer will not go to London. Need immediate removal of the rock in our shoe. Dispatch_ _tishina."_

"As near as we can tell, the _rock_ refers to Harry - the name Pearce, of course, is derived from Peter-"

"From the Greek, meaning rock," Ruth finished for him impatiently. She had worked that much out already.

"And _tishina_ of course is the Russian word for silence. We believe it refers to an assassin."

Ruth took a deep breath, and tried to gather her thoughts. This was the most damning piece of information in their arsenal, but she needed more proof. Holland's word alone would not suffice.

"And I suppose you won't be telling me who exactly gave this to you," she said wryly. Somehow she couldn't imagine Holland being quite so forthright with her. That simply wasn't his way.

"You already know me so well, Ruth," he said, shooting her a lopsided grin. "When you get tired of Harry, you really ought to give me a call. I know you can't take what I've shown you on faith, but I also understand you may have reached out to an old friend of ours. I think you'll trust his word more than mine. For now, though, you can keep that file."

Having worked with Harry for so long, Ruth recognized a dismissal when she heard one. She carefully tucked the papers into her briefcase, and rose from her chair.

"Thank you, Frank," she said.

"I look forward to seeing you at the meeting this afternoon," was his reply, before he returned his attentions once more to his work and Ruth swept from the room, her mind awhirl with suspicions.

* * *

Will was quiet, on the drive from Vauxhall to the Home Office, for which Ruth was duly grateful. She had rather a lot to be thinking about, at present. That Holland had somehow already learned that she and Harry had reached out to Tom Quinn troubled her a great deal, and the documents he'd given to her troubled her still further. Everything seemed to point in one inevitable direction, and though she had been lecturing herself about not over-complicating matters, she couldn't help but feel as if somehow this were all too easy. In her experience, damning evidence didn't just fall out of the sky, and no one offered help without expecting anything in return. There was no doubt that Frank Holland was up to something, but Ruth could not be certain what game he was playing at present.

The drive from Vauxhall to Whitehall was not a long one, and Ruth knew she did not have much time to get her thoughts in order before facing the Russians once more. It would not do to give anything away in their upcoming meeting, to appear flustered or suspicious, and so she would need to do what every spook did best, and disguise her true feelings beneath a facade of lies. She had rather a lot of practice at that, but she was finding the ruse tiresome in the extreme. She did not trust the Russians, and every moment she had to play at diplomacy with the odious Fedorov only strengthened her dislike for him.

They were perhaps halfway across Lambeth bridge, moving at a good clip, when it happened. Will was watching the road intently, his eyes flickering to the rearview mirror occasionally to check that they weren't being followed, and Ruth was watching the river sliding past in a thoughtful, companionable silence. And then, quite out of nowhere, a car came barreling straight at them, heading the wrong way.

"Jesus Christ!" Will swore, banking hard to the side; there was a car close behind them, and he evidently decided in that split second that crashing into the barrier was preferable to slamming on the breaks and driving that car directly into them. Perhaps it was folly, or perhaps there was no other way; Ruth would never know. The oncoming vehicle sped up, as Will desperately tried to avoid it, and the tremendous impact of the two cars colliding head on sent Ruth's pool car careening wildly to the side; the momentum was such that even the sturdy barrier could not hold them, and despite herself Ruth screamed as the car tumbled from the bridge, plummeting into the murky brown water below.


	28. Chapter 28

Sir Harry was nervous. Oh, he was trying to hide it, speaking softly to Towers and even exchanging a - relatively - pleasant greeting with the head of the Russian delegation, but he could not disguise the furrow in his brow, the way his eyes kept flickering to the door, then to Margot, then to the table, and back again. His uneasiness had translated itself to Margot, who recognized its cause at once: Ruth was late. It was quite unlike Ruth to be late for a meeting; over the very brief course of their acquaintance, Margot had already discovered that Ruth was a thoughtful, organized sort of person, one who was always precisely where she was meant to be when she was meant to be there. For each of the meetings they'd attended so far, Ruth had in fact arrived early. Perhaps an hour before, Margot had received a text from Ruth, saying that she was on her way and would see Margot shortly. It was a brief trip from Vauxhall to Whitehall by car, and Frank Holland - with whom Ruth had met that morning - had already arrived. So where on earth was Ruth?

As Margot watched, the end of her pen clamped firmly between her teeth to distract herself from the sense of unease growing deep in her gut, Sir Harry leaned toward Holland, and spoke to him quietly. Though Margot could not hear their conversation, she had a fairly good idea what had passed between them, particularly when Holland shook his head, and Sir Harry's shoulders slumped in resignation. _So no one knows where she is, then,_ Margot thought.

Towers shot her an inquisitive look, as even he began to pick up on the undercurrent of tension in the room, and Margot shook her head just slightly, saying without words _I've no idea where she is._ Towers raised his eyebrow at her in response, and so she rose from her chair and slipped quietly from the room, drawing her mobile from her trouser pocket. She rang Ruth at once, pacing back and forth there in the corridor, but to her dismay, the call went straight to voicemail. That was strange indeed; Ruth had made it very clear that she was never unreachable, that during her many years of government service - the exact details of which still eluded Margot - she had become accustomed to being at the beck and call of others, and made a habit of always having her mobile on, and close to hand. Fighting back a rising wave of panic, she quickly placed a call to Will. The young man had said much the same to Margot, that he was available at all hours of the day and night and she was to call him at once, should she ever have need of him.

That call, too, went straight to voicemail.

 _Oh, this is bad, this is very bad,_ Margot thought, taking a moment to try to collect herself before venturing back into the meeting room and explaining the situation to the Home Secretary. As she paced, she felt the eyes of Sir Harry's security officer upon her back, but the young man made no move to approach her, instead maintaining his silent vigil by the doorway.

 _What do I tell them?_ Margot wondered, fear causing her hands to shake, but at that very moment there came the sharp clack of stilettos upon the tile, and she looked up to find one of Sir Harry's officers - the posh one with the enviable hair who had filled his position during his suspension - marching down the corridor as fast as propriety would allow, her face dark as a thundercloud.

Without even thinking about it Margot withdrew into the shadows just down the way, watching as the spook swept into the meeting room; though she could not say why or how, she had a feeling she would be better off remaining where she was. And in a moment that instinct proved to be correct, as Sir Harry and his officer both stepped out of the meeting room, deep in conversation.

"I'm rather busy at the moment, Erin," he was saying waspishly, but the woman - Erin - cut him off at once.

"I understand that, Harry, but you need to hear this. It's Ruth."

Even at a distance, Margot could see that Sir Harry's face had gone white as a sheet. Her heart constricted at the sight; she had been quietly rooting for Sir Harry and Ruth since the day after the embassy gala, when she had seen the way Ruth blushed prettily at the sound of his name, the way his eyes softened when he watched her, had noted with all the wonder of a young woman still in love with the idea of romance the way they seemed to gravitate toward one another. Sir Harry was sweet to Ruth, and the thought that anyone could elicit such tender regard from a man as rough and gruff as he had filled Margot's heart with gladness. They had already survived so much; not just the shooting at his home, the most recent calamity, but other things, darker things. Margot heard the whispers; she didn't know quite what to make of them, but she knew enough to understand the fear she saw etched into Sir Harry's weathered face.

"Where is she?" he demanded at once.

"St. Thomas's," Erin answered. Harry made as if to depart, his face grim and his shoulders set, but his officer stopped him with a hand on his arm. The expression on his face was positively murderous and would have been more than enough to send Margot fleeing from him in terror, but to her credit, Erin didn't flinch.

"She's all right, Harry. There was an accident, on Lambeth bridge," Despite herself Margot gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth in terror. "Her car was struck head on, and flipped over the railing into the river-"

"And you expect me to believe she's all right?" Sir Harry hissed. "Erin, there is no way-"

"She took a knock to the head and dislocated her shoulder, but otherwise, she's fine. They're going to keep her there for at least a few hours for observation. Her security officer has a concussion and a broken clavicle, but Ruth managed to get him out of the car." Erin recited all of these facts very quickly, very matter-of-factly, as if she were reading from a script. For his part Sir Harry had begun to pace, and as Erin finished speaking, he ran a weary hand over his face.

"She's always been a strong swimmer," he said softly. It was not the words themselves that brought the prick of tears to Margot's eyes; it was the tone of his voice, the wonder and the relief and the admiration he so obviously felt for this woman he adored. And, if she were being honest with herself, Margot would have been forced to admit that she was crying for Will, too, overcome with gratitude that the young man had survived, battered and bruised but mercifully alive. Against her own better judgement, she had grown rather fond of Ruth's handsome shadow, and she would have been devastated if something had happened to him.

"Yes," Erin said impatiently. "And she remembered her training; apparently she used the removable headrest on the driver's seat to break the window so they could get out. But Harry-"

"The other driver?" Sir Harry sighed, no doubt picking up on his officer's frustration and guessing its cause.

"That's the thing, Harry. Witnesses say the other driver got out of the vehicle, and was immediately picked up by a man on a motorbike. We don't have descriptions on either of them."

"This was deliberate," Sir Harry growled, his face taking on a fearsome expression.

"It was. You can't leave this meeting, Harry. I came over here because you weren't answering your phone, and you needed to be told. We've got extra protection on Ruth at the hospital, she isn't going anywhere. Whoever did this wanted to hurt her, maybe even kill her, and we can't ignore the possibility that they've done this to keep you away from the negotiations. You have to go back in there, Harry, and make sure that whatever the Russians are after, they don't get it."

"And what will you be doing, while I'm in there making nice with these bastards?" There was something almost petulant in his tone; while it was clear that he understood Erin's point, and perhaps even agreed with it, it was doubly clear that he was deeply unhappy at the prospect of going back to work while Ruth was laid up in hospital.

"We've got a team going over the crime scene, checking the car for prints, and we're pulling all the CCTV footage from the area. When your meeting is finished, it might be worth talking to Six. Apparently she was on her way back from a meeting at Vauxhall."

"She was. It was Frank Holland, I'll speak to him when the negotiations are done."

Erin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Was it anything to do with...your friend in Russia? The one you were going to call for help?"

Sir Harry waved his hand dismissively. "I'll speak to Holland, and then I'm going to the hospital. I'll ring you from the car, let you know what I've found out."

"I'm not certain that you going to the hospital is the best idea, Harry," Erin said slowly. "They'll expect-"

"I'm going to the hospital," Sir Harry growled. "I'll stay for this bloody meeting and then I'll speak to Frank Holland, but after that, I'm going to the bloody hospital."

There was something rather definitive in his tone, and his officer recognized it at once.

"Right," she said with a little sigh. "I'm going back to Thames House. Lots to do."

"I'll turn my mobile on. Ring me if there's any news."

And with those words their impromptu meeting broke up; Erin spun on her heel and raced off down the corridor, and Sir Harry sighed and squared his shoulders and turned back to the meeting room. Before he entered, however, his eyes swept down the corridor, and landed at once on Margot. Even from a distance, she could see the strain of the morning's events on his face, his worry and his grief and his anger palpable. But when he saw her he smiled softly, and crooked his finger at her, beckoning her towards him. With a heavy heart, Margot made her way to his side. She couldn't believe she'd been caught eavesdropping, but then again, Sir Harry was a spy. It was his job to know when people were listening.

"I suppose you heard all that?" he asked, not unkindly. Margot nodded glumly.

"She'll be all right," he said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "But right now we have a job to do, yes?"

Margot stared up at him; he wasn't the most handsome man, a bit paunchy, his face wrinkled, but as she looked him she rather felt as if she could understand what it was Ruth saw in him. The warmth in his hazel eyes, the fullness of his lips, the raw sense of power, of strength that he exuded were comforting, in their own way, appealing attributes when the world grew dark and dangerous. And Margot was beginning to realize that, for all her talk of being just another civil servant, the world Ruth inhabited was dangerous indeed.

"I need you to do me a favor, Margot," Sir Harry said seriously. "I'm going to go in there, and I'm going to lie through my teeth. I need you to support me. We can't let them know what's happened to Ruth. You need to walk into that room, and smile, and act like nothing's wrong. Can you do that for me?"

In that moment, Margot would have done anything he asked of her, and so she offered him a tremulous smile. "Yes," she said.

"Good girl," Sir Harry grinned at her, and then they were moving forward, together.


	29. Chapter 29

Throughout the long, dreary meeting Harry's head was spinning. As ever he used Frank Holland as a sort of barometer, nodding or scowling according to the expression on the other man's face, but for the most part he was struggling to follow the thread of the conversation. If he had not been so consumed by fear for Ruth, he might have taken a moment to consider the ramifications of his sudden inattention; compartmentalization, ruthlessness in the face of personal loss, these were traits he had honed over a lifetime of service, and to lose them now, to lose his focus and the tenacity that had been the hallmark of his career for the sake of a single woman, was troubling. It was important that he take note of the behavior of the Russian delegation, and Fedorov in particular, that he gauge his counterpart's mood and motivations and not allow his personal agony to cloud his judgement, to leave an opening through which his enemies might willingly step in order to seize their own advantage. For the most part he succeeded in this, even if he could not recall a single word that had been spoken. His gaze had taken in the visage of the Russian diplomat, the slight curl to Fedorov's mouth, the way he dug in, more stubborn, more combative than he had been during previous sessions when Ruth's presence had tempered all of their aggression. He had listened, not to the words spoken, but to the derisive, wheedling tone coming from the other end of the table, and he had noted this, but in truth his heart wasn't in it.

His heart was in St. Thomas's, next to Ruth.

Erin had assured him that Ruth was well, that she had been brave and strong, the way he had always known she could be, when push came to shove, and beneath his worry for her, he felt a great swelling of pride, at the thought of Ruth, gravelly injured and terrified yet still fighting with everything she had, saving herself and the life of her security officer as well.

 _You should have seen her, Harry,_ Adam had told him once, cradling a glass of whiskey in his hands and laughing in Harry's office one night after an operation had gone tits up, and Adam and Ruth had nearly been killed. _I thought she'd run off like I told her to, and then there she was, like something out of a film. She clocked him with this big branch, I'd never seen anything like it. Ruth, can you believe it? And then she looked at me, and she said, "shall I hit him again, Adam?" Bloody Ruth. Bloody brilliant, that girl. It's always the quiet ones you have to look out for._ And then Adam laughed again, and took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes watching Harry speculatively over the rim of his glass all the while.

In that moment, Harry would have given anything to have Adam Carter by his side again. Adam, who had known Ruth as she had been, that girl with the gentle smile and the trembling hands, tender and sweet and still full of hope. Not the Ruth with whom Erin was acquainted, cloaked in shadows and disbursing her steady guidance, broken inside, the Ruth who wept in his arms, crying because she was happy, and she knew that such joy never came without price, that it must always be followed by sorrow and loss and pain. The Ruth that Adam had known had not yet learned that lesson, and Adam had always behaved rather protectively towards her as a result, just as Harry himself had done. If it had been Adam who found Harry in that meeting room, took him aside to tell him that Ruth had very nearly died, Harry was certain that he would not have received a lecture about doing his duty. Adam would have sent him to the hospital and assumed his seat in the conference without blinking. Such solicitousness had never occurred to Erin, of course, and Harry couldn't decide whether that spoke to a lack of compassion, or a dogged determination to follow the bloody rules, but either way, he didn't care for it. Not that it mattered, of course. Adam Carter was long dead, and it would not do to dwell on dreams of what might have been.

As Harry listened to Towers sparring with the Russians, he thought about his Ruth. _She took a knock to the head and dislocated her shoulder,_ Erin had told him. Not as bad as it could have been, given her car had taken a nosedive off Lambeth Bridge. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, running a weary hand over his face as he imagined his darling Ruth tossed around in the backseat of the car, the sheer terror she must have felt as she plummeted down into the murky depths of the Thames. He promptly berated himself for such a show of weakness, listening for a moment before growling out some invective against the Russians just to prove he was listening.

He had to see her; his heart would be satisfied with nothing less than holding her in his arms, than seeing, feeling for himself that she was still alive and well. Perhaps Erin had been right, and perhaps it was dangerous for him to go rushing off to the hospital, but he would not be deterred in this. Let them try and come for him, then, he thought bleakly. He was ready, now, and angrier than he could recall having been for quite some time. It was one thing, for him to think that perhaps Ruth had been collateral damage to his faceless attackers, that she had simply gotten in the way that night the bullets tore through his kitchen, but now Ruth had been targeted directly, and Harry was determined to find those responsible, and tear them limb from limb. Ruth was the kindest, the gentlest, the most compassionate, the single best woman he had ever known, and the thought that anyone could willfully set out to hurt her filled him with rage.

The question he kept coming back to was simply this: _why?_ Why hurt Ruth deliberately? That someone should want him dead was no great stretch of the imagination; in point of fact, the list of people who would gleefully put him down was too long to be reckoned. If someone wanted to remove him from the playing field, it would have been as simple as crashing into _his_ car, instead of Ruth's. Why would they go after her, if Harry was their goal? This seemed to him to be the most solid lead he had yet uncovered; he had been operating under the suspicion that whatever was happening was meant to distract him, and based on their conversation in the corridor, it would seem that Erin had drawn the same conclusion. Now, though, Harry wasn't so sure.

Ruth had been meeting with Frank Holland; as Harry's thoughts raced, his gaze fell once more upon his friend from across the river. What had they discussed?

When Harry left the safehouse that morning he had been too distracted by thoughts of Ilya Gavrick and the dark days they'd spent together in Berlin to question Ruth about her plans to speak to Holland. That she had been attacked as she was leaving his office seemed to be important, though Harry could not say exactly why.

 _Would Gavrick have done this?_ Harry asked himself. _Would he strike against Ruth directly, and if so, why?_ Because Harry had slept with his wife, thirty years before? To watch Harry endure the pain of losing the woman he loved? To keep Harry from the meeting table?

There just didn't seem to him to be any logical explanation for it. Ruth's role was mostly research and admin, though she ventured out into the field on occasion when they were short staffed, or when her particular knowledge base might prove useful, though such forays almost always ended in calamity. Her name was well known in certain circles, but she was hardly a power player -

 _Bloody hell._

All this time, Harry had been thinking of Ruth's role on his staff, her usefulness as an MI-5 analyst, her value to him personally. It was not until that very moment, as his gaze came to rest upon Towers's grumpy visage, that Harry realized his own foolishness. Ruth didn't work for him, any more, she worked for _Towers._ Her role had changed, had brought her more power, more prestige, and more visibility - as well as healthy pay rise. Could it be, he asked himself, that all of this, the bullets and the accident and the whispers in the corridors, had nothing to do with him at all, and everything to do with _Ruth?_ After all, the night they had been attacked had come at the end of her second day on the job. What if Ruth's arrival at Whitehall was the impetus for this chaos, what if it were _Harry_ who was the collateral damage this time around?

 _I have to speak to Ruth,_ he thought grimly. That was always his way; when he could not see the path before him, when he found himself mired in muck and misery and more details than he could fathom, he carried his burdens to Ruth and laid them at her feet, and she shined the brilliant light of her smile upon him, and together they waded through it. She had a mind like no other he had ever encountered before, brilliant, intuitive, and more deeply understanding of the nature of the human condition than even he himself could claim to be. If anyone could solve this particular riddle, it would be her, his brilliant, beautiful Ruth. The team was working hard, Tom Quinn was using his veritable army of contacts to ferret out information, and Ruth was still alive and well; Harry would go to her, then, and they would sort this out, together.

It seemed to him that negotiations were winding down; Holland was grumbling and the Russians were shuffling through their paperwork and Towers was making some feeble attempt at an apology. Harry was itching to leave, but before he could make his own departure, he had to speak to Frank Holland. Across the table he caught the man's eye, and raised gave a subtle of nod of his head. Frank returned the gesture, and Harry relaxed infinitesimally, content to wait out the farewells and then speak to Frank the moment they were alone. After much shaking of heads and muttering of half-hearted promises to think on the other party's proposals the Russians followed out, tailed by a conciliatory Towers and the ever-present aides.

"Harry," Frank growled as they stood together beside the table. "What's going on? Where's Ruth?"

"In hospital," Harry answered grimly. In the harsh lights overhead, he clearly saw Holland's face pale at those words; _good,_ he thought. Surprise was easy enough to fake, but draining the blood from one's own face at will was a trick few could master. It seemed to him that Holland was genuinely shocked to hear of Ruth's fate, and Harry counted that as a blessing. He needed someone he could trust in this pit of vipers.

"Her car was struck on Lambeth Bridge," he explained. "Deliberately."

"Bloody hell, Harry," Frank said slowly. "Is she-"

"She's a bit shaken, but she'll be all right. Tell me, Frank, you met with her this morning. What did you discuss?"

Frank ran a weary hand over his face, his shoulders slumping in resignation. "It wasn't much of a discussion, to tell you the truth. She had questions about Hadley, but I'm afraid I wasn't much help on that front." His eyes went wide, as if he'd just recalled something. "We talked about the Russians, Harry. I gave her a file."

"What file?" Harry demanded sharply. Though Erin hadn't mentioned it, Harry was fairly certain that Ruth had been too busy trying not to die to rescue her briefcase. Likely whatever documents she'd carried were currently resting on the bottom of the river, and that left him ill at ease.

"Documents from one of our people in Moscow, proving that Ilya Gavrick ordered a hit on you."

Harry swore and banged his fist onto the table, hard. He had no sooner come to a conclusion than an alternate theory asserted itself. Would there be no end to these twisting, turning machinations?

"I'm assuming you have another copy of the documents?" Harry asked, rubbing his palm discretely over his smarting knuckles.

"I do," Frank allowed. "I'll have it couriered over to Thames House."

"No," Harry shook his head. "I'm going to check up on Ruth, and then I'll come to Vauxhall myself. I think it's time you and I had a nice long chat about all of this."

"I couldn't agree more," Frank said seriously. They shook hands, and then Holland departed, leaving Harry alone for a moment to gather his thoughts.

 _I have to get to Ruth._ through all the noise that surrounded him, the endless, riotous clamoring of a hundred different suppositions, he clung to that one certainty. Whatever was happening, whoever was behind it, he had to make his way to her side. Somehow he just knew that if only he could hold her hand in his, he could find a path out of this minefield.

* * *

 **A/N: Just a head's up, I likely won't post again until Monday. It's that time of year! Too much to do, and not enough hours in the day.**


	30. Chapter 30

They'd given her a private room, for which Ruth was duly grateful; she didn't want anyone to see her like this, bandaged and bruised and lying in a pitifully thin hospital gown, desperately wanting to go home and yet unable to leave her bed. Though she had protested most strenuously the doctors remained determined to keep her in for as long as they could, concerned about the knock she'd taken to the head when her car went plummeting into the river. And while Ruth understood their concerns - and shared them - the last place she wanted to be was stuck in hospital. More than anything, she wanted to crawl into bed with Harry beside her, to sleep, and to forget the horrific turn her day had taken there on Lambeth Bridge.

It had been, without a doubt, the single most terrifying experience of her entire life. More frightening than sitting in that room with Harry, waiting for Mani to end her life, more frightening than those moments she'd spent grappling with a French assassin in Keith Deery's flat. Oh, she had been terrified then, too, but in one instance Harry had been with her, his presence a comfort even in the midst of calamity, and the other had come at a time in her life when she had very little to live for. Things were different now; in the moment before her car slipped below the surface of the water Harry's face had swum before her eyes, and all she could think was that she hadn't kissed him goodbye that morning, she hadn't yet told him that she loved him. There was so much she wanted for him, for her, for them together, and she couldn't bear the thought of losing his love so soon after having discovered it.

Now that both she and Will were safe and mercifully alive she felt foolish for indulging in such self-pity, but she couldn't shake that desire to see Harry again. Perhaps it was weakness, to love him so completely, but she couldn't change it. She needed him, longed for him; even before they had fallen into bed together, Harry had always been the one who kept her steady, reminded her what they were fighting for. As she lay there contemplating abandoning her post and moving somewhere far, far away from the danger and the fear that dogged her steps in London, she thought of Harry, staunchly standing guard on the wall, and she told herself she could not leave, not while he remained. She would be strong for him, would make him proud. She would not run, would not let fear dictate the course of her life. Someone had tried to kill her; she would not give them the satisfaction of knowing how deeply they had frightened her.

Ruth was right on the verge of drifting off to sleep when Harry came barging through her door, breathing like a bellows with two nurses and his security officer hot on his heels. The sight of him, barrel chested and determined and blissfully alive, soothed her weary soul. He really was lovely, her Harry; she knew he would have come to her as soon as he could, would not let anyone keep him from her for long, and she loved him for it. As the nurses tried to impede his progress in the doorway, Ruth caught sight of his eyes, troubled and pleading for her, and she felt the answering call of her heart crying out for him.

"Please," she told the nurses softly. "Just for a few minutes."

The two young women exchanged baleful glances but did as they were bid, slinking off down the corridor and allowing Harry entry at last. He was by her side in a moment, reaching down to clasp her hand in both of his, his face the very picture of tortured concern. If it weren't for her shoulder Ruth would have lifted herself up, tugged him down to her, and kissed him senseless. As it was, however, all she could manage was to squeeze his fingers between her own, offering him a tired little smile.

"I'm all right, Harry, really," she told him gently.

His eyes roved endlessly over her, no doubt checking for signs of damage, and so she only sighed, and indulged him for a moment before asking the question that had been weighing on her mind from the moment the emergency services had rescued she and Will from the freezing water.

"Who did this, Harry?"

He gave a deep, bone-weary sigh and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her once before he turned away. There was a chair in the corner of the room, and with some effort he dragged it to her bedside, plopping into it and taking her hand in his own once more, clinging to her as if he never intended to let her go. For her part Ruth clutched him just as fiercely, equally as determined to keep him by her side.

"We don't know," he confessed, his eyes beseeching. "Apparently, as soon as they struck your car, they were picked up by a man on a motorbike. Erin has the techies scouring CCTV footage, but if it's the same person who tried to shoot us, they'll have been careful not to be caught."

It bothered him, she knew, that he did not have the answers he so dearly sought. His expression was troubled, and the set of his jaw told her all too plainly that he was furious, at the perpetrators, at his team's lack of results, at his own helplessness in the moment. Harry was the sort of man who would give his life for those he loved, would do anything to protect them, to keep them safe and well, and no doubt he felt that he had failed her. As far as Ruth was concerned that was nonsense, and she was determined to tell him so.

"It isn't your fault, Harry," she told him seriously. Why did it feel as if she were always saying those words to him, always reminding him that much as he might wish it he was not, in fact, in control of everything and everyone around him? Sometimes Ruth rather felt as if she had been whispering those words in his ear for years now.

Beside her he heaved a great sigh, his expression growing ever more grim. "It's taking us entirely too long to find these people," he grumbled, "and the longer it takes, the longer you're in danger."

"We're closing in on them," she pointed out. "Frank Holland gave me a dossier today, documents showing that Ilya Gavrick is behind the Russian plot to have you removed."

Harry nodded. "Yes, he told me about that after our meeting. I'm guessing your copy of the documents is currently at the bottom of the Thames?"

Ruth nodded glumly, but Harry just smiled. "It's all right. Holland has his own copy, I'm going straight over to Vauxhall this afternoon and he and I are going to have a nice long chat about all of this."

"You should know," Ruth told him slowly, wishing she didn't have to be the one to tell him, yet knowing he would react better hearing it from her than from anyone else. "It's clear, based on those documents, that Gavrick is the one who ordered these most recent attacks on us."

Harry was on his feet in a moment, pacing the way he did when he was livid, when he was confused, when he desperately wanted to throwing something and yet was trying to maintain a calm exterior. Her heart went out to him, trying to imagine what he must be feeling, now that they knew almost for certain that the recent chaos that had upended their lives was connected to those dubious choices he had made so many years before. Ruth knew a little, about Harry's connection to Gavrick, knew that Harry had taken the man's wife to bed, and even knowing this, even knowing that it was entirely possible that his youthful indiscretions had nearly killed her, she couldn't help but smile at him softly, encouragingly. Berlin and Gavrick and all of it was in the past, so far removed from the man Harry Pearce had become, the man she loved, and Ruth wanted - _needed -_ him to know that this latest revelation in no way diminished her love of him.

"Harry," she began, but he cut her off, still pacing.

"I can't help feeling we're missing something," he muttered. "If it is Gavrick, Tom will find out, and he can help us put an end to this madness, call off the dogs. But the timing of it is suspicious-"

It was Ruth's turn to interrupt. "It appears that Gavrick ordered the hit on you after he learned he would not be able to come to London himself."

Despite the gravity of the subject at hand Ruth found she was enjoying their conversation immensely. This was something they had always done well, this back and forth, reading one another's thoughts, anticipating, intercepting, challenging, and ultimately moving forward, together. It was a constant source of delight to her, though Harry so often won these battles of wills by virtue of the fact that he had access to so much more in depth intelligence than she herself did. That had all changed now, of course; Ruth's security clearance was now higher than Harry's own, a fact she privately preened over, even if she had yet to point it out to him.

But Harry wasn't nodding along in agreement; if anything, he looked pained. "That isn't quite what I meant," he told her. "We were attacked immediately after you started working for the Home Secretary, and now someone has deliberately targeted your car. I think we have to keep our minds open on this one, Ruth. It's entirely possible those documents are fake, that someone is trying to point the finger at the Russians so we'll be distracted, and then you can be removed."

His words struck her like a physical blow to the chest, stealing the air from her lungs, the room around her spinning slightly out of focus. Until that very moment, Ruth had been sure that she was no more than collateral damage as their powerful foe sought to bring Harry low; after all, this would hardly be the first time she had been used as a pawn in someone else's game. Ruth had resigned herself to that fate long before. What Harry was suggesting, however, was something altogether more nefarious, altogether more dangerous. _Could it be?_ She wondered. After all, she had been the one standing by the window, and Harry had crossed behind her; what if the shooter had been waiting for her to make an appearance, and Harry simply got in the way? And now there was the accident on the bridge, when Harry had been nowhere in sight and Ruth had just come from meeting with the the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.

"But why-" she started to ask, but Harry ceased his pacing, and crossed the room to stand beside her once more.

"You've just become a very powerful woman, Ruth," he told her, his voice somehow conveying both pride and fear, "and you know a good many secrets. I'm not certain that you are the only intended target, but we can't discount it. We'll need to up your security. And after this, I think you can bet that Erin will recommend you and I stay in different safehouses for the duration of the investigation."

"Absolutely not," Ruth grumbled.

Beside her Harry laughed and bowed his head, brushing his lips against her temple. "That's what I'll tell her," he said reassuringly. "You won't be rid of me that easily."

As if to prove him wrong his mobile chose that exact moment to ring, and he grimaced as he fished it from his pocket, answering it with a curt, "What?"

Ruth reached for his free hand, twining their fingers together, watching the slide of her skin against his own and thinking hard about everything he'd told her. Paul Hadley was mixed up in this somewhere, too, she reminded herself, but where? How? Who was the Russian assassin, or indeed, was there any Russian assassin at all? There were too many questions, and she feared they were fast running out of time. Harry was murmuring softly to whoever had rung him and for the most part Ruth paid him no mind, too troubled with her own worries to add his to the pile. And then he ended the call, saying gruffly, "I'll be right there."

Her heart sank at those words; she had rather hoped that he would still a little while longer, that he would hold her, kiss her, comfort her, as she so dearly wished he would. But lingering together in peace and solitude was not their lot in life, and she knew it.

"What's happened?" she asked him.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were steeling himself for some disaster, and then he took a deep breath, and spoke.

"Frank Holland is dead," he said shortly.

"Oh, god," Ruth breathed, horror stricken as tears filled her eyes. They had not known one another well, but she had been warming to Frank Holland, had enjoyed their verbal sparring matches, and she had been slowly beginning to trust him. That his death had not been the result of natural causes seemed the most obvious solution to her; he had only just left the latest round of negotiations, and Ruth had been attacked after speaking to him. What did he know that was worth killing for?

"I'm ordering extra protection for you," Harry told her sternly. "And as soon as the doctors say it's all right, I'm having you moved to a new safehouse. Don't argue-" he cut her off as she opened her mouth to protest. He'd only just promised her that he would not be separated from her, but it would seem that Frank Holland's death had changed his mind. "I will not lose you, Ruth. Not now. I have to go to Vauxhall, but I'll ring you as soon as I know more."

"My mobile was lost in the accident," Ruth grumbled, furiously scrubbing the tears from her cheeks. There was no time for weeping when death came to call on them; they had far too much to do.

"I'll get you one," Harry assured her. Once more he swooped down on her, kissing her gently on the lips. "I love you," he breathed.

Her tears redoubled, as he spoke those words. Of course she knew that Harry loved her, had known since that day by the docks when she held his face in her hands and tried to memorize every line of his face. To hear him say it, however, in a moment tinged with fear, with pain, with uncertainty, seared her to the core. _Love_ did not seem strong enough a word to convey everything she felt for him, but it was the only she could think of. She wanted so badly to return the sentiment, but Harry just smiled his crooked smile and walked away, leaving her to her grief and her fragile, fervent hopes.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: I apologize for the long delay! A combination of work stress, cold weather, and holiday madness has kept me from writing, but I'm back at it now, and we're in the home stretch!**

* * *

Erin was waiting for him, as he slipped into Frank Holland's well-appointed office. Six were understandably reluctant to allow Harry and his team access to the inner sanctum, but they had relented, with the caveat that their brothers from across the river would not be permitted more than a few moments in the room, and certainly not unobserved. The scene was bustling with activity; Frank's body had already been whisked away, but the office itself, the room in which he'd spent his final moments, had been turned upside down by his killer, drawers hanging open and paper strewn about everywhere, and it was to that mess that the investigators now turned their attention. Not wanting to disrupt them at their work he made his way to Erin's side, fear churning in his gut. It was so _wrong,_ somehow, that Frank Holland had been murdered and his office ransacked in the broad light of day, that even here, buried within the bowels of one of the single most secure facilities in the country, Harry's insidious enemies had found a foothold, and wrought such havoc.

"Status report?" he asked Erin in a low tone of voice, unable to tear his eyes away from Frank's desk, from the chair where the man himself had sat during many a long, rather friendly meeting with Harry in years gone by. _If they can get to him here,_ Harry thought grimly, _n_ _owhere is safe._ He made a note to double Ruth's protection detail, using members of his own staff. No one could be trusted, it would seem, and he could not bear the thought of the man who'd tried to kill her on Lambeth Bridge returning to finish the deed.

"Poisoning," Erin answered shortly. "Best guess, based on the state of the body when he was discovered, is strychnine. They've taken his teacup for testing."

"Bloody hell," Harry sighed, running a weary hand over his face. Strychnine was a nasty way to go. "Do we know-"

"No one saw anything, Harry," Erin cut him off, and though she had correctly interpreted his intent he couldn't help but bristle, just a little, at her interruption. From the moment they met she had been like this, haughty and convinced of her own lofty place in the pecking order, and Harry, rather peevishly, wanted nothing so much as to knock her down a few pegs. He didn't have time for office politics at present, however, and so he did not chide her for overstepping, choosing instead to bite his tongue and listen as she hurried to explain. "He had just come back from the meeting with the Russians. There was no appointment listed in his diary, and his PA swears that she didn't bring anyone back to meet with him. But the tea had to come from somewhere. They locked the building down -" Harry had taken note of that on his arrival, of the fact that though they had allowed him entry there were several rather distraught looking gentlemen in fine suits milling about the lobby and demanding they be allowed to leave -"and they're going over the surveillance footage, but given the state of this place and the condition of the body, it seems his attacker would have had ample time to escape before Holland was discovered."

"In which case locking down the building is a massive waste of time and resources," Harry grumbled. "Which is probably exactly what they want."

"I thought the same, but Six is running this investigation, and they're not interested in what we have to say."

 _Nothing new about that,_ Harry thought.

"Strychnine, you said?" As much as it grieved him to lose a man like a Holland, a colleague and an ally, if not quite a friend, there was work to be done. There had to be a link, Harry mused, between the attack on Ruth and Holland's subsequent murder. But before Erin could answer his question regarding the type of poison used another, far more grievous thought sprang to mind.

"Oh, Christ," he swore. "Erin, I was due to meet with Holland this afternoon. There were several documents he wanted to show me, documents he gave to Ruth after they met this morning."

"You think the killer was looking for those documents?" she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. Not for the first time, Harry wondered if it was wise to trust her; after all, she had been brought in to replace him, and she was one of those new upstarts who stood to gain a great deal of power and position should the old guard be removed. Thus far he had played his cards close to his chest, but it seemed to him that his enemies had always been one step ahead. Was it possible, he asked himself, that they had someone on the inside, feeding them information? He gazed at Erin warily, running through the details in his mind; _no_ , he decided. If his operation were compromised, he and Ruth would have been murdered at her flat, or at the safehouse, or on the street long before now. He might not have liked Erin, but at the moment he could think of no good reason to mistrust her, except that he did not know her very well. _No time like the present,_ he told himself.

"It stands to reason, doesn't it? Ruth gets her hands on those documents, and someone runs her car off a bridge. Frank Holland agrees to show them to me, and he's murdered in his office. And, given this mess, I think we can be certain that the documents have been taken."

"What exactly are we talking about here, Harry? What was in those documents?" Erin pressed, leaning towards him with a hungry look in her eye.

That was a step too far for Harry; he wasn't prepared to reveal everything just yet, his tangled history with the Gavricks and the possibility that Ilya was behind the attempt on his life. He lacked proof, and his best lead had just been stolen out from underneath his nose; now was not the time to indulge Erin's desire for more information.

Before he could give some evasive answer to Erin's question his mobile rang, and he stepped out to answer the call in the relative privacy of the corridor.

"Pearce," he ground out from behind clenched teeth, inwardly cursing whoever had chosen to interrupt his conference with Erin. He didn't have time for this, not now, not when it seemed that Ruth's life hung in the balance and he was racing to catch up to an enemy who had outsmarted him at every turn.

"Harry, it's me," came the sound of Tom Quinn's voice on the other end of the line.

 _Oh, thank God,_ Harry thought.

"What have you found?" he demanded sharply. There was no time for friendly chit-chat, to ask Tom how the weather was in Moscow; Harry needed answers, quickly, before Ruth's luck ran out and his own life was shattered in the process.

"Our friend has been able to get her hands on some useful information," Tom answered cryptically. "There's a cache of documents on its way to you now with a courier I trust, you should have them by tomorrow morning. In the meantime, Harry, it looks like your suspicions are correct. Someone here in Moscow has been after you for years, and I think you know who that person is." It was as much as Tom could say over the phone, but it was enough for Harry; he was right, then, about all roads leading back to Ilya Gavrick. "And you should know, Harry, that there's someone in London helping him. Someone ambitious, who thinks that taking you and Ruth out of the picture will further his own agenda." Harry had a fairly good idea who that might have been, as well, but he would have to wait until Tom's documents arrived.

"You're sure the documents will be safe? Two people were attacked today shortly after getting their hands on similar information. We cannot lose them again."

"Not to worry, Harry," Tom said, full of casual arrogance, the way he always had been in the past, and much as Harry bristled at being spoken to in such a way he couldn't hide the rueful little smile Tom's words brought to his lips. Of all his best and brightest, Harry had always been proudest of Tom, Tom who had shown so much potential, Tom who had somehow done the unthinkable and gotten out alive, with his name intact. _If only we were all so lucky._

"You say that now," he grumbled. "I'm grateful for the help, Tom, but I have another favor to ask you. Whoever is behind this has been throwing a spanner into my operations for decades. Countless lives have been lost, and now they've come after Ruth." In the beginning Harry had not explained the extent of the threat against himself and his lover, but now he felt he had no choice. The favor he was about to ask of Tom was an unconscionable act, so far beyond the scope of the bargain they had struck, but he had to ask, and when he did, he needed Tom to know exactly why it was necessary. "They've tried to shoot her, they've run her car off a bridge, and now they've killed the last person she met with this morning. She's in terrible danger, Tom. We have to draw the line somewhere. We cannot lose another one of our people."

On the other end of the line Tom was quiet for a long moment as Harry's words, and the depth of passion in his voice, slowly sank in.

"Ruth," he said slowly, in a tone of mild disbelief. Harry thought he could understand that; Ruth had still been just a girl when Tom left, still uncertain in her position, still no more than a mousy analyst. Tom had not seen the woman she'd grown into, fierce, formidable, beyond reproach, more dear to Harry than his own life. One day, Harry swore, one day when this was done the three of them would sit down together, perhaps with Malcolm, and tell stories of the old days while whiskey flowed like a river between them, reminding them why exactly they did what they did, honoring those they had lost, toasting to a brighter, more peaceful future. It was no more than a beautiful dream, but one he hoped to make a reality.

"Ruth," he said firmly. "She's the Senior Security Adviser to the Home Secretary now, Tom. You'd be quite proud of her, I think," he added, thinking how Tom had taken Ruth under his wing, made her his protege of sorts, thinking of the pair of them standing in his office the night of the EERIE Exercise, the night when he'd first begun to wonder if perhaps Ruth was as intrigued by him as he was by her. _Christ,_ he thought, _that was another life._

"Ruth?" Tom said again, more incredulously this time. "Bloody hell." He laughed, a short, mirthless sound. " _Bloody hell,"_ he repeated softly. "That's a bridge too far, Harry. Trying to kill you over some old grudge is one thing, but bringing Ruth into it is something else altogether. What do you want me to do?"

"I want to put an end to this," Harry said grimly. "Adam Carter, Ros Myers, and countless other agents have lost their lives because of this man's grudge. I want it to stop. We can handle the operative in London, but I need help to...smooth things over in Moscow."

"My operative won't like this, Harry," Tom protested, but Harry dug in mercilessly.

"You tell her that because of this man, someone parked their car outside my house and fired more than fifty rounds through the kitchen window while Ruth was standing in front of it. You tell her that Ruth's car was deliberately sent off Lambeth Bridge and into the Thames. She was always rather fond of Ruth, I think you might find that knowledge will be sufficient to bring her on board with this."

"One of these days, Harry, you're going to have to tell me where you found this girl," Tom said. There was a grudging sort of respect to the words as he spoke, and Harry realized that, regardless of the concerns he had voice, in his heart Tom had already decided to do as Harry asked.

"One of these days, Tom," Harry told him. "I will. Do what you need to. Call me when it's done."

"I will," Tom agreed, and then there came only silence as he ended the call.

Harry's head was buzzing; he had just given Tom and his operative orders to murder a foreign official, and he had done it standing in a corridor at Vauxhall. That was beyond risky; it was, in fact, downright foolish, given the evidence that there was traitor somewhere in the Security Services. Harry was fairly certain he knew who that traitor was, but _fairly certain_ wasn't good enough; he needed the proof Tom had promised him, the proof Frank Holland had died for. As much as Tom assured him that the documents currently winging their way to him were safe, he would not relax until he held those pages in his hand, until Tom rang him with news of success.

There was much to do; first he needed to speak with Erin, and find out who was handling the review of the surveillance footage. The chances of Six sharing that footage with him were slim, but if he could only trace its source, then perhaps Tariq could do some digging of his own. When that was done, he would need to have a conversation with his contact at Special Branch about one Paul Hadley, and then he would need to check in on Ruth again, if he could. The day was wearing on, faster than he would have liked, and so he spun on his heel, and set to it.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Sorry, y'all. I know I sound like a broken record, but it's really bloody cold! I make no promises regarding an update schedule, but I just want to reassure you that the next chapter is coming.**

* * *

It was Erin who came to collect her, in the end. Ruth was sitting on the end of her hospital bed when Erin came sweeping in, feeling distinctly unglamorous in comparison with her messy hair and her borrowed hospital scrubs. It had been a long and trying day, but worst of all, Harry had not returned, and without his comforting presence beside her, Ruth's thoughts raced, a thousand horrible scenarios flashing through her mind. He was injured, he was dead, he was not going to allow them contact again until this was through; it had been a very long time since Ruth had felt at such a disadvantage, removed from the game and denied the information she needed to confront the threat at hand, and as a result she was left distressed and uncertain.

"New mobile," Erin said, handing it off to Ruth, who took it gratefully. "Important numbers have already been programmed. Are you ready to go?"

Ruth gave a little sigh and rose to her feet unsteadily. Her shoulder still pained her; they'd given her a sling to wear, to ease the strain, and pills for the pounding in her head. The sling she took gratefully, but the pills she set to the side. Whatever was happening, whoever was after her, Ruth wanted her wits about her. If she was going to take her life into her hands and once more slide into the backseat of a car, she wanted to be awake and prepared for anything.

"We've organized a new safe house for you," Erin explained as they left the hospital room behind, leading Ruth down the corridor. Two agents in dark suits flanked them from behind and Erin walked just in front of her, forming a protective ring of sorts around Ruth as they went. "We're going to move you at sporadic intervals until this situation is resolved. I know it's an inconvenience, but we can't risk keeping you in one place for too long."

"And Harry?" Ruth asked before she could stop herself. In front of her Erin paused for just a moment, and Ruth's cheeks flushed pink, her heart skipping a beat as she realized what she'd done. That she and Harry were together was common knowledge, now - especially after the meal Erin had shared with them - but it was still deeply unsettling, knowing the team was privy to the details of her personal life. And she was a bit embarrassed, truth be told, at the way her thoughts so quickly drifted to Harry, the way she asked after his arrangements before requesting information about her own.

"Despite having been advised by the Home Secretary to separate the pair of you for your own safety, Harry will continue to stay with you," Erin said brusquely. It was clear from her tone just what Erin thought of that plan, but Ruth could not spare a moment to consider the ramifications of defying such an order as relief sharp and sweet washed over her in waves. Harry would be with her; somehow she was certain that so long as Harry was by her side, no harm could come to her. Such a thought was folly, of course; he had been standing with his arms around her, his lips seared to the curve of her neck, when those bullets came burning through his kitchen window. Then again, she reminded herself, he had acted immediately in the face of that threat, had flung her to the floor and covered her body with his own, and because of him, she was still alive and well.

 _It will be all right,_ she told herself as she walked. _We'll be all right._

* * *

On the whole it was a spectacularly unproductive day. Though Tariq had done his best he had yet to locate the CCTV footage Six was currently holding hostage, they had discovered no sign of the motorist who'd nearly ended Ruth's life, and his conversation with his contact at Special Branch had proved distinctly unhelpful. At least, he told himself as his car sped along the streets towards the new safe house, at least Ruth was home safe, currently under the watchful eye of Erin Watts and four of the best agents Harry could get his hands on. Once again, he was coming home to her, and though nothing else in the tangled mess that had become his life made sense, at least he had that one fact to cling to, that one mercy, that one saving grace.

Without a word to his driver he slipped out of the car and into the safehouse, a quiet little house on a quiet little lane. It would take him an extra twenty minutes to get to work in the morning, but that inconvenience hardly mattered; _whatever it takes,_ he told himself, _to keep Ruth safe._

He found her inside, curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked underneath her, her arm cradled against her chest in a bid to protect her still-tender shoulder. She was sleeping, her head resting against the cushions, Felicity snuggled into the space between Ruth's knees and the arm of the sofa. Ruth's soft dark hair fell in loose waves around her face, every trace of makeup and artifice gone, washed away by a torrent of horror in the Thames that morning. For a time he simply stood there in the sitting room, staring down at her, this woman he loved more than life. She was, he thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was, he thought, everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed; _everything_.

Finally, by some twist of fate or the urging of her suspicious spook's nature, Ruth stirred. She arched her back, sighed, fluttered her eyelashes as she slowly dragged herself back into wakefulness.

"Hello," Harry said softly, not wanting to startle her, not wanting to be caught out gazing at her in hopeless adoration. Then again he supposed it would not be so very bad, for her to catch him watching her thus; after all, he adored her, hopelessly, and there was no reason for him to hide it, any more. He had whispered his love against the column of her neck while he buried himself inside her, had laughed with her, had held her while she cried, had clutched her hips in his hands and rocked her to the point of ecstasy. _It's all right, now,_ he told himself. _Let her see._

"Hello," she answered, giving him a shy smile. She reached out, offering him her hand, and he took it in a moment, lifting it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss against her palm.

"How are you feeling?" he asked as he stood there looking down upon her, watching the play of emotions in the depths of her brilliant blue eyes, the way her smile lingered at the corners of her full lips, the way her whole face seemed to shine as she looked up at him, impossibly young and lovely and _good,_ so much better than he could ever hope to be.

"I'm fine, Harry," she said, her tone nearly chiding, as if she were tired of answering that particular question. "I missed you," she confessed, and were it not for her injured shoulder he would have used the hand still cradling hers to haul her upright that very moment, to crush her body against his chest and sink his mouth down upon hers and lose himself inside her. It had only been a few hours, since last they spoke, but she had _missed_ him, and he rather understood it, for he had missed her as well. He had missed the warmth of her hands, the wisdom of her counsel, the sure and steady guidance she offered him at every turn. Every moment she was not by his side, he missed her. They had spent too much time apart, over the last few years, and he was determined to make up for it, to counter every second of loneliness with a moment of joy and love and rapture, together.

"I'm here now," he told her softly, kissing her hand once more. "Everything will be all right, Ruth, you'll see."

She smiled at him sadly, that enigmatic, otherworldly smile she had, the one that stopped him in his tracks, sometimes; Ruth was what his mother would have called an _old soul,_ wise beyond her years, so terribly sad, and yet, still, enduring. And he loved her for it.

"Come on," he said, clearing his throat to banish his melancholic thoughts, giving her hand a gentle tug. "Let's get you something to eat."

* * *

It was later, much later, when they heard the commotion outside.

In a delightful display of domesticity it was Harry, and not Ruth, who cooked their supper, insisting that she remain seated at the table - Felicity, as ever, curled upon her lap - while he did all the work and she drank her wine, smiling at him. Evening Harry was her favorite Harry, Ruth decided as she watched him; his shirt wrinkled, his tie discarded, his sleeves rolled back and the beginnings of scruff upon his cheek, he hummed while he worked and spoke to her gently, and she wrapped herself up in the warmth of his love, safe and happy for the first time all day. The bite of fear still stung deep in her gut, and she worried that she had not properly dealt with the emotions surrounding her brush with death, that the fear and the sorrow and the rage and the grief were not banished, but simply waiting, to steal up on her in some quiet moment and tear her limb from limb, leaving her weeping and shaking and unable to speak. She tried to focus on the present, instead, on Harry and dinner and her little cat; _what will be will be,_ she told herself, _and no stopping it._

After their meal they retreated once more to the sofa; somehow they ended up sprawled atop it, Ruth resting on Harry's chest, Felicity perched on the armrest behind his head. Harry ran his fingers through Ruth's hair and whispered to her softly, and she hummed and smiled and softened against him, grateful for this moment of rest after a day of calamity.

It was a moment that was not built to last; from outside they heard the sudden clamour of raised voices, and Harry was on his feet at once, dislodging Ruth as gently as he could before making his way to the briefcase he'd left by the entry to the sitting room. In an instant he had the case open and retrieved a gun from inside, turning to Ruth with a grim expression on his face.

"Stay here," he told her curtly, and before she could protest he was gone, moving down the hall towards the front door on silent feet.

It was agony, waiting there on the sofa, tracing her hands across Felicity's soft fur and praying for a miracle. The voices went quiet, after a moment, and then there was only silence as Ruth's heart pounded in her chest, her breath frozen in her lungs. _Not now,_ she prayed. _Please don't take him now._

And then he was back, and if she'd possessed the strength she would have kicked him, so delighted was she to see that he was alive and well and safe, so embarrassed was she to have worried for him so.

"Bloody amateurs," Harry muttered as he stowed his gun back in his briefcase. Ruth wasn't listening to him, though, for as he stepped into the room another man had stepped up behind him, and Ruth's attention was diverted in a moment.

"Malcolm," she cried, scrambling up from her perch on the sofa, wanting to rush across the room and fling her arms around him, to hold on to this man who she counted among her dearest friends, and yet holding herself back for his sake, knowing that physical contact made him uncomfortable.

It was months since she'd last seen him; he'd come to the Grid during the Albany debacle, had offered Harry assistance and then promptly vanished. Time had stolen more of his hair and left him paler than she recalled, slimmer, too, but his eyes sparkled at her the way they always had done, and she felt the first prick of tears at the sight of him, this dear, sweet man who had helped her through so much calamity, who had always been beside her while the field agents ran amok beyond the sanctuary of Thames House. They were kindred spirits, Malcolm and Ruth, quiet souls who loved their books and did not always know how to talk to people, and she could not think of a single person - save Harry himself - she would rather see on this night, at the end of such a terrible day.

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," Malcolm said, gentlemanly as ever. "I'm afraid I gave your security detail quite a scare." _Ah,_ Ruth thought. _That explains the shouting._ He must have been spotted on his approach, and the security officers watching outside must have mistaken him for the assassin, though Ruth couldn't imagine anyone thinking Malcolm posed a threat. Not Malcolm with his soft eyes and his stooped shoulders, his gentle hands and his dated wardrobe, his cheeks coloring faintly at the sight of Ruth, who was clad in her pajamas, soft black trousers and a softer grey top displaying more of her body than he'd likely ever seen before. Somehow having him here, allowing him to witness just how comfortable she and Harry were together didn't trouble Ruth the way Erin's trespassing into their personal life had done. It was different, having Malcolm here with them. After all, he had been there from the beginning, had known them both for so very long, had watched them come together and fall apart. It was Malcolm who had encouraged Ruth, when she first came to the Grid, who had offered her his support when he discovered she'd gone out with Harry - though that conversation had come with disastrous results - and it was Malcolm who had come to Ruth in a dingy flat after her return from Cyprus, who had heard her murmur _how is he, Malcolm,_ and never had to ask to whom she was referring. This man was their friend, and he was welcome here, in this place that would be their home, for however brief a time.

"Not at all," Ruth told him warmly. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? I could put the kettle on."

"No, that's all right, Ruth, thank you," Malcolm answered, shuffling somewhat uncomfortably there in the doorway as Harry looked on, smiling at the pair of them fondly. "I actually have some information for the both of you. Would you mind if we all have a seat?"

Harry stepped forward then, ushering Malcolm further into the room and directing him into an armchair adjacent to the sofa while Harry took up his place next to Ruth. Without a thought Harry extended his arm across the back of the sofa and Ruth leaned into his embrace, comfortable and casual as teenagers; the only indication Malcolm gave that he noticed their newfound familiarity was the faintest trace of a smile dancing around the corners of his lips.

"Before we begin," he said as he dug through the case he carried, retrieving a laptop and setting it upon the coffee table between them, "Tom sends his regards to you both."


	33. Chapter 33

The documents Malcolm laid out before them made for a compelling case. The details were there, dates and the corresponding orders sent down from Ilya Gavrick, spanning the width and breadth of Harry's career from the very moment he left Berlin. The sheer volume of the data was both damning and disheartening; how could it be, Harry wondered as he stared down at Malcolm's laptop, that he had never noticed the pattern before? Each time he had been frantic, trying to unravel the debacle of the day, and each time a solution had presented itself before Harry had the chance to trace those nefarious vines back to their murderous roots. Yalta, Kachimov, the bomb that took Adam Carter's life, Tiresius, Sarkisian, Lucas; all of it - _all of it -_ had been orchestrated on Gavrick's orders. One man's grudge had spelled the end of easily half a dozen of Harry's best and brightest. It boggled the mind, and yet this explanation was elegant in its simplicity. After all, Harry could think of nothing more enduring, more destructive, than one man's hatred for another.

"So you see," Malcolm said in conclusion, "what we have here is proof of Russian interference in our operations spanning decades. I think that, given this information, the Home Secretary would be well within his rights to put a quiet end to the current negotiations."

Harry grunted; yes, he would present this case to Towers, with the same recommendation. He was determined that Britain would not play ball with the Russians after such an egregious and ongoing breach of trust, and with the documents Malcolm had presented him he believed he could make a case to the HS for cooling relations between their two countries significantly. While that would neatly resolve one of his current headaches there was no guarantee that it would negate the current threat against Ruth, and Harry had half a mind to say so. The sight of her stayed his tongue, however; she was small, and tired, and sad, curled there beneath his arm, the terrible bruise her accident had left on the side of her face purpling noticeably in the dim light of the safehouse sitting room. It would not do, he decided, to trouble her unnecessarily. After all, Tom was still out there, acting on Harry's orders, and he was confident that the whole catastrophe would be brought to an end shortly.

"I can't thank you enough, for delivering these documents to us," Harry said instead. "Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to keep them out of our hands, and I think they will prove very useful."

Malcolm smiled at him shyly. "I was happy to do it," he confessed. "I've been a bit...bored, to be honest, and the encryption Tom used was sufficiently complex to keep me occupied for a few hours. It's been almost...fun, to step back into the game for a little while, but I find I'm ready to retire once more."

That was something Harry could understand; though he himself was not yet ready to give up the fight, he knew what it was to be bone-weary, wrung out by the endless parade of loss and ceaseless work. Likewise he understood what it was to be removed from the board, to have to walk the streets as a civilian all the while knowing the great adventure taking place behind the scenes, to yearn for that adventure with every piece of him. _Once a spook, always a spook._

"You've done good work today, Malcolm," Harry said, sensing that Malcolm was indeed ready to make his exit and return to his quiet life. Harry rose to his feet, and Malcolm copied him, accepting the hand Harry extended him and giving it a gentle shake.

"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked, shifting somewhat uneasily on his feet now that their meeting had come to an end, and the time had come for him to go. Before Harry could answer Ruth was on her feet as well, and in an uncharacteristic display of affection, she brushed past him to envelop their old friend in a warm hug. Malcolm's eyes went huge and his cheeks turned pink, but he accepted her embrace with good grace.

"You're a true friend, Malcolm," Ruth murmured, her words muffled by Malcolm's tweed jacket.

"Stay in touch, yes?" Malcolm asked, ducking his head as she released him and resumed her place at Harry's side.

"Absolutely," Ruth answered for the pair of them. "When this is done, we'll have you round for dinner one night."

 _We'll have you round,_ she'd said, not _I_ , but _we,_ as if she and Harry were now two people who did things together, who acted as a single unit, who invited friends round to a home they shared, and Harry could not stop the grin that overtook him at the thought. This thing between them was new, and beautiful, and growing stronger by the moment, and he found himself all at once overcome with love of this woman, with her faded pajamas and her tousled hair and her fierce eyes.

"I would like that, very much," Malcolm said, and that was that. Ruth ushered him to the door, and a rather disgruntled looking agent - who had apparently been standing on the doorstep throughout the duration of Malcolm's visit - escorted him down the walk.

The moment the door closed Ruth heaved a weary sigh, and Harry took her into his arms, her arms immediately encircling his waist, her cheek resting against his chest, her hair tickling his chin. They stayed like that for quite some time, warm and still and if not happy at least at peace. Their ordeal was drawing to a close, and soon enough they would be allowed back in their homes, would be allowed to continue the delicate dance that had begun between them without fear dogging their every step, and Harry was looking forward to it with some relish.

"Does this mean it's over, Harry?" Ruth asked him, her words vibrating through his chest where their bodies pressed together. "Is this the end of it?"

"Not quite," Harry sighed, wishing he had some other answer to give her. He kissed the top of her head and led her back to the sofa where they collapsed once more together in a tangle of arms and legs. Once they were settled he continued.

"I think that Malcolm is correct, and this evidence will be sufficient to end the negotiations. Sending the Russian delegation back to Moscow with their tails between their legs will only enrage Ilya, though. He won't stop just because we've uncovered this plot. He will only try to be more clever. That's where Tom comes in." The words came tumbling out of him before he had a chance to think them through, and he grimaced at the very thought of what must surely come next.

Against him Ruth turned her head, her eyes huge and impossibly blue as she gazed up at him. "What do you mean?" she asked, a hint of reproach in her voice, and all at once Harry realized that he had not told her of his plans for Tom, of the request he had made earlier that afternoon in the corridor at Vauxhall. A sudden fear had his stomach clenching, roiling with doubt; Ruth was a spook, through and through, but she was _good,_ gentle and kind and full of compassion. What would she say, when she learned that he had engaged Tom to assassinate Ilya Gavrick? What would she think of him, when faced with the violent reality of his cold heart? Harry would do anything for this woman, and as he looked down upon her he found himself wondering if he could bring himself to lie to her, for her sake, for his own, for the sake of maintaining the fragile peace they'd only just established. What would hurt her more deeply, he wondered; the truth or the lie?

In the end, against his own better judgement, he told her the truth, for he could never deny his Ruth anything.

"This has to stop, Ruth," he told her softly. "Gavrick cannot be allowed to continue to wreak havoc in our affairs. We cannot allow any more good agents to die because of him. Those documents prove that time and politics have not been sufficient to put an end to his little game, and I'm afraid I had no choice but to step in. I've asked Tom to...eliminate the threat."

"Kill him, you mean?" Ruth demanded sharply, sitting upright and running her fingers through her hair. "You can't be serious, Harry." There was shock, and anger, and fear shining in her eyes, hurt and doubt; how remarkable it was, Harry thought as he gazed upon her, that so much could be read in a face, in a single expression. She was a piece of art, a thing of beauty, much too precious to be wasted upon the likes of him. And yet he loved her, with all his heart, and was determined to do whatever it took to keep her safe, even if the methods he used cost him her love, cost him everything.

"I had no choice," he said softly.

She was on her feet in a moment, pacing there in the sitting room while Felicity looked on disinterestedly from her perch upon the back of the sofa and Harry watched her with his heart in his throat, feeling as if his every hope hung in the balance. Would this be the moment, he asked himself, when she saw him for who he was, and decided she wanted no part of it, of him? Somehow he could not blame her, but as her outraged silence dragged on he felt himself compelled to speak, to fight for the love they shared, the future they dreamed of. He rose and she took a step back from him, and her retreat, and the reproachful look upon her face, loosed his tongue at once.

"Don't you see what he's done?" Harry demanded. "What those bastards did to Jo, to Adam, to Ros, it was all him! He set the plans in motion. Ilya Gavrick is the reason your husband died, Ruth, he's the reason you lost the boy."

The moment he spoke those words he regretted them; Ruth recoiled as if he'd slapped her, tears suddenly rushing to her eyes, and for once she made no move to hide them. For once she allowed him to see the depth of her grief in all its glory, the pain she had carried in her heart from the moment she'd been returned to his arms, shaken and sorrowful and distant as the moon. And for all that his heart was breaking, for all that he was berating himself for reminding her of the man who'd taken his place, the family she'd lost for his sake, in that moment the only thing that seemed to matter was how deeply he loved her. The truth was out there, now, for it was Gavrick who had activated the terrorist cell that set Tiresius in motion, Gavrick who had ordered Sarkisian to sell him to the bastard whose plot had ruined Ruth's life. Gavrick, who had done all that and so much more for no purpose other than to bring Harry low. No matter what they had told themselves, as they patched up the holes in their lives following her return, the truth remained; Ruth had lost everything, because of Harry, as payment for his sins.

For a long time there was only silence, as Harry warred with himself and Ruth fought back her tears; he could almost feel the wheels in her mind churning, could almost see the thoughts flashing across her face, and not for the first time he dearly wished he could read her mind. Ruth was a mystery, however, an enigma he would never understand, for at long last she heaved a great sigh, took one step towards him, and reached for his hand.

"He wasn't my husband, Harry," she said softly, ducking her head and staring down at where their fingers intertwined. Harry's heart began to pound so loudly he found himself suddenly wondering how long it would continue to keep him alive; surely, he thought, it could not maintain such a pace for long. "He wanted to be, but he never was. No matter how much I...cared for him, I could never be his wife."

 _So?_ Harry wanted to shout. What did the semantics of it matter, in the end? The man had shared her bed, and she had cared for his son, and she had screamed, the moment he died. It felt as if she were trying to tell him something, and so he did not push her, much as he longed for answers.

"No matter where I went, no matter how long I was gone, I never stopped...thinking about you, Harry. I couldn't imagine myself married to anyone else, not while you were still out there."

He wanted so badly to tell her that he felt the same, that he had never stopped missing her, wanting her, needing her, that there was nothing in the world he longed for so much as to call her his wife, and yet he did not speak, for this was Ruth, and what she needed, what she always needed, was the space to come to her decisions on her own.

"You're right, Harry," she said sadly. "I don't like it, I wish there was another way, but you're right. George didn't deserve to die. Adam…" her voice cracked, but she soldiered on valiantly, "Adam didn't deserve it, either. None of them did. He has to be stopped."

At long last Harry realized that it was safe, that Ruth was not leaving him, not yet, that she was still here, standing beside him, holding his hand, and he gave thanks to a god he did not believe in for that mercy. Using the hand still clutching hers he pulled her to him, and wrapped his arms around her, and Ruth did not fight him, collapsing against his chest instead.

"I love you," he breathed, knowing she needed to hear it, knowing he needed to say it, now, to solidify the strength of their connection in the wake of this latest trial. "I love you, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe."

In his arms she gave a little sniffle, and clung to him fiercely.

"I love you, too," she whispered.


	34. Chapter 34

Harry Pearce was by nature an early riser, and lazing around in bed had never been one of his favorite indulgences. He liked to greet the sun with a cup of tea in hand - if he could spare the time - and then begin his day, liked to keep moving, going, doing as much as he could. In the stillness his regrets came for him, his dreams haunted by those he'd lost, those he'd betrayed, those he could not save, and activity kept the darkness at bay. The morning after Malcolm's visit he woke well before dawn, as always, but for the first time in a very long while he found himself lingering in bed, his eyes drawn to Ruth, resting peacefully beside him. There were some compensations, he thought, to staying right where he was, the vision of a beautiful woman, the warmth of her seeping into his weary bones igniting his imagination with a whole host of possibilities. They had not made love the night before, too troubled by the news Malcolm had brought them and the revelation of Harry's nefarious intent toward Ilya Gavrick to do much more than fall into bed, clinging to one another with their declarations of love echoing in their ears. Now, though, now they had rested, and the sun had not yet risen, and Ruth was beautiful and soft and everything he had ever dreamed. They could take their time, now, could come together in a lazy haze of lust and love and joy at finding themselves still in the same place, wanting the same things, despite the tumult they had endured. It was a good thought, a happy one, a thought that had Harry reaching for her at once, brushing his fingertips across her cheek and watching her thick eyelashes fluttering in response.

His lover hummed as he touched her, as his hand ghosted across the soft line of her jaw, following the smooth curve of her neck down to her collarbones, to the very edge of her soft grey pajama top. She hummed, and the gentlest of smiles tugged at the corners of her full lips, and Harry's heart leapt at the sight, full to bursting with love of this woman. They could spend every morning like this, he thought as his hands traced the curve of her body, the dip at her waist, the flare of her hips; they could wake together, in peace, and steal for themselves a moment of bliss before they donned their armor and marched out the door to greet whatever battle was waiting for them beyond the four walls of their home. That was strange, he realized as his hand curved around her thigh and in response she shifted, draping her leg over his hip and drawing him closer to her; they were in a safehouse, some soulless, barren place set aside for use in times of distress, a place that did not belong to them, and yet so long as she was here beside him, he could think of it as _home._ Home was wherever he found himself with her.

"Good morning," his lover murmured, her eyes still closed but her face tilting towards his own in a silent plea for kisses.

"Good morning," he answered, dipping his head down in response to her invitation, brushing her lips with his own lightly, teasingly, drawing her into wakefulness, wanting her to be with him, fully, in every way before he began to ravish her. Beneath him she grumbled, apparently unsatisfied with his fleeting caresses; she lifted her hand and threaded her fingers through the unruly curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him towards her for a proper snog.

 _I could get used to this,_ he thought, but he had no sooner given in to his desire to taste her fully than the ringing of a mobile shattered their temporary reprieve.

"Yours or mine?" Ruth asked, her breath ghosting across his cheek as he lifted his head in a Pavlovian response to the sound.

"Yours," he answered.

Ruth muttered something unintelligible and rolled away from him, reaching out to grope blindly across the little table on her side of the bed until she located her mobile, tumbling back beside him as she answered.

"Yes?"

Lifting himself up on one elbow Harry ran a gentle hand across her hair, smoothing it down and drawing some comfort from the touch, from that reminder that she was there, tousled from sleep and pouting slightly, her face betraying the same impatience, the same disappointment that had filled him at the disturbance. But as the person on the other end of the call continued to speak her eyes grew troubled, and she sat up at once, dislodging his hand in the process.

 _What fresh hell is this?_ Harry wondered as he flopped down beside her, unwilling to break their connection as his hand sought her out once more, this time kneading the flesh of her thigh and trying, in his own limited way, to soothe her as she listened intently, her brow furrowed with worry.

"Of course," Ruth said at long last. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

 _Damn._ With those simple words Harry's plans for their morning were well and truly shattered.

"I'll bring Harry," she added, and then the call was ended, and her sapphire-bright eyes fixed themselves upon him at once.

"We're needed at the Home Office," she said grimly.

* * *

Ruth's hands were shaking, as she and Harry made their way towards the Home Secretary's office. They had showered together, not wasting time on tender caresses the way they might have liked, shuffling around one another in the narrow stall in an attempt to speed their morning's preparations. There had been no time for tea and toast and quiet conversation; they had dressed as quickly as they could, her hair still slightly damp at the ends, fed Felicity, and marched out to meet their security details, though Harry had spared a moment to kiss her cheek before they were shuffled off into their separate cars for the trip across the city. As soon as they arrived they marched through the corridors together, faces set as they each carefully schooled themselves for what was to come.

Many years of service to her country had helped Ruth learn to curb her reactions, to maintain a neutral expression if given enough time to prepare. In the past many people had remarked upon the openness of her face, and she had cursed herself for her blushes and her stammering words, but experience had taught her restraint; too many horrors and too much grief had helped her build her walls, to hide her true feelings from view. She prayed that the morning's preparations and the brief car ride would be sufficient to help her hold the line now, to keep from revealing her knowledge regarding the events the HS was so eager to discuss.

Beside her Harry was as silent and impassive as a stone, and she resolved to let him lead, to keep quiet as far as she could. After all, he'd had far more practice at this than she, and she was confident that if she could only avoid drawing attention to herself, he would be able to guide them through.

"Are you ready?" Harry asked quietly as they drew level with the door.

Ruth just nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and in the next moment he was ushering her inside.

Towers was waiting for them, standing behind his desk with a face like a thundercloud.

"Nice of you to join me," he said gruffly as they entered his domain. Ruth bristled at the comment; it had taken them less than an hour, to make themselves presentable and rush across town, and there was no possible way they could have come any quicker. Towers knew this, of course; he was just taking out his foul mood on them, and Ruth knew better than to protest, much as she might long to.

"What's happened?" Harry asked, likewise choosing to ignore the HS's surly demeanor as they all took their seats, Harry and Ruth folding themselves into chairs one side of the desk while Towers sunk into his own throne on the other.

"The Russian delegation is boarding a plane back to Moscow as we speak," Towers answered grimly, folding his hands together on the desk top and regarding them both with suspicious eyes. "Ilya Gavrick and his wife were found dead in their home this morning. It appears to have been the result of a carbon monoxide leak. There's no evidence at present to suggest that it was malicious, but you know what the Russians are like. They'll take their toys and go home at the first sign of interference."

"I can't say I'm sorry to see the back of them," Harry said after a pause sufficient to indicate that he was surprised at this news, though he was really nothing of the sort; Tom had rung while they were in the shower, leaving no message, but then, he hadn't needed to. Ruth and Harry both knew why he was calling.

"For God's sake, Harry," Towers grumbled. "Tell me you didn't have anything to do with this."

"I didn't have anything to do with this," Harry parroted back.

Ruth could have kicked him; such a flippant response would only rile the HS, and in truth Towers looked positively murderous, but Harry continued on, heedless.

"My people have been focused on our problems here at home, I haven't had the time or resources to spend on the Russians," he said smoothly.

Would it be enough, Ruth wondered, to keep Towers off their scent? The method Tom had chosen for taking down the Gavricks was smooth, and did not immediately point back to them, and as she sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap Ruth prayed he had been careful enough to avoid leaving any trace of his involvement. He was an old hand at this, though, was Tom, and that gave Ruth hope. Perhaps, she thought, their ordeal was coming to a close.

"Speaking of," Towers continued, shuffling through the papers on his desk and selecting a photograph which he then handed over to Harry, "I don't suppose you had anything to do with this, either?"

It was a photo of Paul Hadley, blood obscuring half his face. Ruth sucked in a sharp breath at the sight; she'd had no knowledge of any attempts to bring Hadley down, and the brief flicker of surprise in Harry's eyes was enough to confirm for her that he had not been involved. If she had not spent the last eight years of her life studying him, the lines of his face and the color of his eyes and the set of his chin, she doubted she would have noticed it all, so competent was he at hiding his true thoughts, but she knew this man better than any other, and she knew what she saw when she looked at him. He had not lied to her, then, for which she was very thankful, but _someone_ had killed Paul Hadley, and the fact that they had managed to carry out the assassination without either Harry or Ruth knowing anything about it was deeply troubling.

"When?" Harry asked as he handed the photo back to Towers.

"Early this morning. Police responded to a call of shots fired at his home and found him like that. I have to say this doesn't look good for you, Harry. Hadley was sniffing around the pair of you and everyone knows how you feel about the Russians. We've got three dead bodies and all fingers point back to you."

Ruth shifted uneasily, wanting to defend him and yet knowing that there was nothing she could say that would not make things infinitely worse. Everyone knew she was sleeping with Harry, and any support she chose to give him would fall upon incredulous ears.

"Need I remind you, Home Secretary, that I have been under constant surveillance for a week now? When exactly would I have been able to carry out these murders?"

"Oh, you and I both know that you're too high profile to get your hands dirty, Harry. You could easily have set one of your agents after Hadley."

 _This is ridiculous,_ Ruth wanted to shout, but still, she held her tongue. There was a game afoot, she could see; Towers was watching Harry carefully, gauging his reactions, and her own as well, and she would simply have to sit back and let them each play their hands. It was galling, to once more be relegated to the role of the quiet, right-hand girl; she had only just assumed her new position, and before this moment she had rather thought that the power and the influence it afforded her would give more weight to her words. Not so, it would seem. At least, not yet.

"And you and I both know I didn't," Harry said after a long moment. "Hadley has drawn our interest, of course, but he's done nothing to merit killing him. I never even met the man."

Towers sighed. "I was hoping you'd say that. Special Branch is handling the investigation into his death, and they may call on you, but I'm satisfied that you weren't involved. In this, at least."

His gaze was steely, seeming to quietly suggest that he still suspected Harry might have had something to do with the demise of the Gavricks, but he seemed content to let it lie, and for that Ruth was duly grateful.

"Are we concerned about potential fallout from the breakdown of the Russian negotiations?" Ruth asked, smoothly diverting the course of their conversation away from murder and onto the only slightly safer topic of politics.

Towers startled slightly when she spoke, as if he'd all but forgotten she was there.

"It's too soon to tell," he answered. "The Russians don't want word of Gavrick's death getting out, at least not until they're certain how he died. They don't want to appear weak, and they won't lay the blame until they can be sure they're holding all the cards."

And that was that. The meeting continued on for quite some time as they discussed the best way to move forward, how they would handle the revelation of the news that the talks would not continue, how relations with Russian diplomats in London would be handled for the foreseeable future. It was mind numbing, compared to their chat about the dead operatives, but it gave Ruth hope. The three of them worked well together, Ruth and Harry and Towers, and their meeting instilled a certain confidence in her. She did not know yet if the threat to their lives had well and truly passed, but it seemed to Ruth that the end was in sight, that she and Harry would soon be allowed to return to their homes and their normal lives, and she drew comfort from knowing that they had so far navigated their changing roles successfully, that she and Harry could do their jobs and love one another and the world wouldn't come to an end. By the time she left Towers's office, she was feeling almost cheerful.


	35. Chapter 35

Harry's mind raced, as he paced through the corridors of Thames House, drawing ever nearer to the Grid and his waiting team. That Garvrick was dead - and his bloody traitorous wife along with him - seemed to Harry to be the best possible outcome, a sign that perhaps the future might be a bit more secure for him personally, if not for the world at large. The news of Hadley's demise was somewhat less auspicious, however; who had killed the man, and why? What would his death mean for Harry, and for Ruth?

As he stormed through the pods his eyes landed at once on Erin, and he scowled at her, anger simmering just below the surface of his musings. She would need to be dealt with; somehow the HS had learned of Hadley's death before Harry himself, and he could not shake the sense that his ambitious Section Chief might have something to do with it.

"Meeting room," he barked, and as one his team rose to their feet and followed in his wake like so many murderous little ducklings. Not for the first time since he'd been reinstated Harry found himself missing Ruth's presence beside him as he took his seat at the head of the table; he missed her steady hand, and her gentle wisdom. She would have sensed his frustration, and she would have given him that rather stern look she reserved for him when he was being unfair to the team. She always looked out for others, his Ruth, stepping between him and the intended targets of his ire, counseled him to prudence. And so she would, the next time he saw her, and he reminded himself that he ought to be grateful she was still with him, grateful that while he was denied her presence in the office he could look forward to her warmth beside him as he slept.

Erin was carrying a stack of papers, and as she settled herself at his right hand she shuffled through them and then began to speak, as if she thought _she_ were setting the agenda for this impromptu little conference.

"Harry," she said, but before she spoke another word he pounded his fist against the table, his fearsome expression silencing her at once.

"How is it," he asked in a low voice, "that the Home Secretary was informed of Paul Hadley's death before I was? I thought I told you to keep tabs on him."

To her credit Erin regarded him coolly; she was not defensive, nor did she blanch from him, and yet again Harry found himself wondering if they would ever truly be able to work together well. She was demanding, and entitled, but she had up until this morning demonstrated her competency as an agent. Letting Hadley slip through her fingers - and letting him die as a result - did not reflect kindly on her, and he was left once more evaluating her fitness as a leader. Erin had been foisted on him by the powers that be, by men who were determined to replace him with a more political, more bureaucratic sort of leader, and in moments like this Harry was sharply reminded of the fact that she had set her eyes upon his chair.

"I decided it could wait," she said simply. "He died early this morning, and I thought you and Ruth could use the rest."

Dimitri, Callum, and Tariq had both been silent throughout their little exchange, and as Erin spoke they kept their mouths firmly shut, though they all three visibly paled at the mention of Ruth's name and the innuendo of her words. Of course everyone knew that Harry and Ruth had been stationed in the same safehouse, had refused to even entertain the notion of being separated, but until this moment, the team had exercised a great deal of restraint, and made no mention of their sleeping arrangements. Harry could feel the vein throbbing in his neck as the urge to reach out and throttle his Section Chief roared to a crescendo, but she was still speaking, and he was too overcome with rage to get a single word out.

"Tariq found this yesterday," Erin said, laying out a series of photographs for his inspection. "Paul Hadley, arguing with one of Six's deniable assets. And here's that same asset on the back of a motorbike, leaving the scene of Ruth's accident."

"Are you telling me," Harry growled, "that not only did you fail to tell me Hadley had died, but you were also withholding the identity of the man who tried to kill Ruth?" Dimly Harry began to wonder if it would be too much to have Erin hung, drawn, and quartered for her insolence.

"The asset's name is David Logan, he's in one of our holding rooms right now," Erin told him primly. "He's confirmed that Hadley hired him to kill you and Ruth. By the time he'd confessed, Hadley was already dead."

And then she handed over several more photographs of a rather shifty Anatoly Fedorov. "That's Paul Hadley's home. Fedorov was inside for no more than five minutes. Two minutes after he left, someone rang the police to report gunshots, and when they arrived, Hadley was dead. Fedorov made it to the Russian embassy before we were able to apprehend him, and now he's gone. Given the circumstances I think it might be prudent for your security details to remain in place for a few more days, just to be certain, but it would appear that there is no longer a threat to your life."

She sat back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest and looking up at him smugly.

"Gentlemen," Harry said, never taking his eyes from Erin's face, "could we have the room?"

As one the three young men rose to their feet and all but ran for the door, abandoning their fearless leader to her fate.

"Do you realize what you've done?" he asked softly. Erin opened her mouth to protest, but Harry was having none of it. "You have allowed a foreign operative to assassinate a member of the British Security Services on our own soil and escape unscathed."

"Harry-"

"No!" he cut her off sharply. "You will _listen,_ Erin, I don't care if it kills you. Yes, it seems plain that Hadley was behind this. Yes, I'm glad he's dead. But we have no _proof._ We have a few photographs and the word of a hired mercenary. It looks as if the Russians were using Hadley to their own ends, but we do not _know._ What if he wasn't the only one involved? What if there are other factions at Special Branch who want Ruth and I removed? _You_ couldn't touch Fedorov at the Russian embassy but _I_ could have done something. And now our best lead is gone, and we will never be able to question him."

Erin slumped slightly, as Harry came to the end of his little diatribe, breathing like a bellows from the effort of moderating his voice. _I hope Ruth would be proud of me,_ he thought grimly, _for not strangling the girl._

"I didn't think-"

"Oh, but you did, Erin. You thought this might reflect well on you, tying up all the loose ends with a neat little bow. You thought I'd be impressed with the work you've done. This is Tariq's victory, Erin, not yours. You've made a fool of yourself. You were right about one thing, however. I do think the security details should remain in place, at least until we can be reasonably certain the threat has passed."

For a moment, Harry wondered if she would apologize, if she would show the maturity and the grace to admit that she had made a mistake, if she would offer to help clean up. And perhaps she might have, if he'd allowed her the opportunity, but the truth was that he wasn't interested in anything she might have to say at that point. He simply wanted her gone.

"You're dismissed," he said flatly.

* * *

After the tumult of the last few days, it felt rather strange to be back in her own flat. Harry had rung her, had tersely explained about Fedorov's involvement in Hadley's death, and his plans to keep that information to himself. _It simply won't do,_ he'd told her, _for word of this to get out. We can't have anyone knowing he murdered one of our own with impunity._ Though Ruth knew he was right it still chaffed a little, knowing that they had been denied the opportunity for answers. Why had Hadley done it? How had the Russians known that he was willing to help them eliminate Harry and Ruth, or had he sought them out? What had he hoped to gain, by removing them from the equation? Yes, he'd been involved in the Cotterdam investigation and _yes,_ that information alone would have been enough for Harry and Ruth to fight his admission to the JIC, but had he really arranged to have them murdered all for the sake of his own ambitions? They would never know, and the not knowing left Ruth ill at ease.

But at least she was home. Her flat was as she'd left it, if a bit dustier than before, and Felicity was skulking, angry at having been moved yet again. Rather than trying to coax her little cat out from underneath the settee Ruth set about doing a little tidying up, throwing out the food that had gone bad in her absence and debating the merits of ordering a takeaway. It was nice, to be surrounded by her own things again, though she knew it would be some time before she was able to relax fully. They still didn't know if Hadley and Fedorov and that mercenary Logan were the only ones involved in the plot against them, but only time would tell. That no attempt had been made on her life since Hadley's death hardly meant that further calamity wasn't in the offing; as she was so often telling Harry, _absence of evidence is not evidence of absence._ She would have to wait and see, much as it galled her.

And, if she were being perfectly honest with herself, she was somewhat concerned about what this change in circumstance might meet for herself and Harry. It had been remarkably easy, sharing her life with him while they were both in danger, clinging to one another when they did not know who else to trust, his strong arms wrapped around her to protect her in the night. What would they do now that they no longer needed to share the same home, now that it seemed that they could breathe a bit easier? Without the tension that had filled them, would they still lean so heavily on one another?

If she were being honest with herself, she missed him already. Her flat didn't seem like home anymore, not without him in it. But she had resolved herself not to ring him, not to push him, not to demand more than he was willing to give, not to become the sort of woman who nagged him and chided him and suffocated him with her need of him. He loved her, and she knew it, but she did not yet know what that love meant for their future. Ruth wasn't sure she could bear it, if they retreated once more to a safe distance after everything they'd shared, but she desperately did not want to be the one to fling herself at Harry's feet. It was unfair of her, she knew, to want him to be the one to reach out to her, when Harry was the one who had asked her to dinner, proposed to her, committed treason for her. He had lain everything he had on the line for her, more than once, and yet she found herself wishing that he would do so just once more.

Ruth had almost resolved herself to a quiet supper of beans on toast - accompanied by a very large glass of wine - when she heard the gentle tap of someone knocking on her door. She padded down the hall on silent feet, her heart pounding in her chest; somehow she knew who would be waiting for her when she opened that door.

And there he was, his tie askew and his face weary, though he smiled at her softly when he caught sight of her.

Wordlessly Ruth stepped aside, and he joined her there in her home, lingering by the door as she locked it behind him. He was so _close;_ she could only just detect the slightest hint of his cologne, almost imperceptible at the end of a long day, could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the heavy weight of his gaze upon her as she stood beside him, so close that with each breath she took her shoulder brushed against his chest.

"I hope Chinese is all right, for supper," he murmured.

Ruth couldn't stop herself; she flung her arms around his neck, rising up on her tiptoes to claim his lips in a fierce, heated kiss. He let loose a little _umph,_ startled by the impact of her body crashing into his with such unexpected force, but he recovered at once, tangling the fingers of his free hand in her hair and holding her close against him.

Suddenly none of it mattered, any more. She'd realized it the moment she saw him, realized that no matter what came next, no matter who tried to come between them, they had come too far to be broken apart now. He had come to her, as she'd hoped he would, and now the time had come for her to show him that she was as invested as he, that there was nothing in the world she wanted so much as him.

"I'm not hungry," she breathed against his lips, and he laughed, dropping the food right there on the floor so that he could hold her closer, kiss her harder, love her with everything he had, and in that moment she made a silent promise to never let him go.


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: Firstly, the beginning of this chapter is a bit on the M side. Secondly, we have come to the end of this little story, and so I offer my sincerest thanks to all of you for sticking with it! There will be more HR from me in the future, so keep an eye out.**

* * *

 _One month later…_

In the foggy gloom of early morning in Paris Ruth rocked above him like a ship upon the sea, her head thrown back in pleasure, her dark hair spilling down across the soft skin of her bare back in a waterfall of loose brown waves. She was magnificent, this love of his, and Harry could not take his eyes from her, from the gentle curve of her breasts, bouncing with every movement of their hips, the pale skin of her stomach, the contours of her thighs, clutching him for dear life. His hands curved around her waist, holding her to him, guiding her movements as they pushed and ground and groaned together in this place that he had for so long dreamed of taking her. Not just Paris, though he had known almost from the start that one day he wanted to take her to this city, to walk along the river with her hand clasped in his own, to watch her in the cafes and the museums and the little bookshops, to share this tender piece of his heart with her. More than that, he had wanted to bring her _here_ , into a moment just like this one, when they could shed their professional, secretive selves and simply be, two souls together, happy and content and hopelessly in love.

She gasped his name as his hand drifted from her waist, down over her hip, across her stomach, his fingers disappearing into the thatch of dark curls where they were joined. Since that beautiful night at the Russian embassy they had spent every evening together, had gone from stony silence to cohabitation without so much as a conversation about it. His clothes migrated to her flat one suit at a time, his ties dangling over the mirror above her dresser, his shoes beside her own just inside the front door. They would have to talk about it soon, he knew; as comfortable as they were together Ruth wasn't particularly attached to her little flat, and likewise there was no sense in his paying a mortgage on a home he never set foot inside. He would ask her, soon, if she would like to make a decision, if she would like for them to set out on their own, to find a place that was neither hers nor his but _theirs;_ that would be a conversation for another time, however, as Harry was currently incapable of coherent thought, the heat and the rapture and the sheer devastating eroticism of Ruth riding him like this having consumed him utterly.

As she reached her peak a crimson flush spread from her nipples, dark and hard as pebbles from the attention his lips had lavished upon them, all the way up the slender column of her neck, painting her in the colors of the sunrise despite the dark clouds beyond this room, the rain that lashed against the windows. Her inner walls fluttered around him as she gasped and shuddered above him, and Harry took over for her then, one hand still wrapped firmly around her hip, holding her to him as he thrust inside her, hard, once, twice, three times more, and then she was coming undone, collapsing against him, whimpering her pleasure as he found his own, warm and safe and sated in his love of her.

For a time they simply remained where they were, Ruth draped across his chest, Harry's hands drawing circles across her back. It was a miracle, really, that they were here at all, that they had survived through horror and calamity, had survived every bitter word they'd ever spoken to one another, had overcome their reticent natures and fallen together at last. A miracle, or perhaps an inevitable result of all the time they had spent together, learning one another, relying on one another, trusting no one save each other. Perhaps all it took, all it ever would have taken, for them to find their way together was simply this, that they be forced to spend a quiet moment together, alone, away from the Grid, to speak softly to one another of the truth of their hearts.

And now, this. Bliss, and joy, and comfort of a kind he had never known. Ruth smiled more, these days, than he had ever seen from her before. She was soft and warm, wrapped around him in the evenings, her head upon his shoulder as they sat together on the sofa, his nose buried against the back of her neck as they fell asleep in her bed. Though their routines had returned to what passed as normal for them, Ruth rushing off to meetings and managing intelligence for the HS and Harry as ever trapped in his office all hours, she was always there, now, when he left Thames House behind, and he had never felt quite so loved, so full of life, as he did now that he knew she would be waiting for him.

"I love you," he whispered, pressing his lips against her shoulder. She sighed, wriggling that little bit closer to him, her thighs tightening reflexively around him.

"I love you, too," she answered.

* * *

It was later, much later, when they finally left their little hotel, foregoing room service in favor of a dark, musty-smelling bar on the far side of the city. Housed inside an old, dilapidated sort of building, the bar was nestled along the banks of the river, jostling for space with gentrified old houses and a few run down looking shops. They made their way inside, Harry's arm looped around Ruth's waist, her head brushing against his shoulder as she took in the view, searching for something.

She found it almost at once; the bar opened in front of them, a bit cramped despite the fact that there were only two patrons in view. An opening at the back of the room led to a smaller space for private parties, and it was here they ventured, moving with confidence though they were each of them wary, as ever, knowing that the clandestine meeting they had arranged was so illegal as to border on treasonous. Ruth was fairly confident that the measures they had taken to keep their mission a secret would be sufficient to protect them, but she was a spook to her core, regardless of her job title, and she knew she would be looking over her shoulder for all the rest of her days. She had resigned herself to that fate long ago.

Inside the little room at the back of the bar their friends were already gathered and waiting for them; Harry and Ruth shrugged out of their coats and then found themselves engulfed in a wave of hugs and handshakes and chaste cheek-kisses. They all keep their voices soft and their eyes on the door, the habits of a lifetime proving impossible to break, even for the one in their ranks who was ostensibly retired. If their friends found it strange, that Harry should have entered the room with his former analyst tucked beneath his arm, they did not comment, though a knowing look passed between Ruth and the only other woman present, a flush painting her cheeks immediately.

"We've already ordered for you," Beth said, no doubt sensing her former flatmate's discomfort, and Ruth smiled at her gratefully as Harry held out a chair for her. As soon as Ruth was seated Harry settled himself beside her, one arm flung casually across her shoulders as with the other he lifted the glass of scotch Malcolm had placed in front of him. Ruth watched her lover fondly as he lifted the glass, inhaling the familiar aroma before raising an eyebrow at his oldest friend.

"That's a very good scotch," Harry said, his tone implying that Malcolm had likely spent too much on the drink.

"Then it's a very good thing you'll be covering the bill," Tom said slyly from the other side of the table.

Harry chuckled, his fingertips ghosting across the curve of Ruth's shoulder, and for once she did not feel ill at ease, to have him so blatantly show his regard for her in public. Let them see; Malcolm had been there, when this dance between Harry and Ruth first began, and Beth had been there, when Ruth had been stolen from the back of a van and very nearly murdered for the sake of the love Harry bore her, and Tom had been there, when Harry had called seeking vengeance for the attempt on her life. These people were their _friends_ , a very rare commodity in this business of spies, and there was no one with whom Ruth would rather share her joy than this strange assemblage.

"To old friends," Harry said, raising his glass in toast. Ruth lifted her own wine glass, and the five of them completed the ritual before settling down to the very serious business of catching up.

They spoke for hours, of how Harry had sent Beth to Tom, following her decommissioning, knowing the girl needed the chance to work, to wash the blood from her hands, knowing Tom would be able to find a use for her. That had surprised Ruth, when she'd first learned of it; how had Harry known that Beth had been let go? How had he spoken to her without Ruth's knowledge? Not that it mattered, really, how it had happened; Harry had done it, and Ruth's heart had swelled with love of this man as she watched him from the corner of her eye, thinking how good he was, how gentle he could be when it came to those he cared for. In the days following Albany his own career had been all but ruined, his life in tatters as he endured endless surveillance and a bitter silence from Ruth, but still he had taken the time to look after Beth.

They spoke of Malcolm's mother, who had at last slipped away from him, and the way Harry had somehow managed to evade his tail just long enough to attend the funeral. When he once more imparted his condolences to Malcolm, Ruth reached beneath the table and rested her hand upon his thigh, giving him a gentle squeeze. It still sometimes surprised her, their easy way with one another, how very simple it was to love him, and set aside all that had come before. He was just a man, after all, a bit battered, a bit weary, but _hers_ , wholly and completely, and she could not imagine anything more perfect than him, than them together, at the end of every day.

"I managed to get in touch with Zoe," Tom told them as the night drew to a close. They had all drunk more than was wise and they were making noises about ringing for taxis, but it seemed that the evening had one last surprise in store. Beth perked up a bit, at Tom's words, not knowing who Zoe was but sensing the sudden current of tension that filled the other guests seated around the table.

For her part Ruth found she could not speak, as a lump formed in her throat and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Dear Zoe, Zoe who had been a friend, a sister almost, for however brief a time, sweet and sad and determined, lost to them all by the cruel machinations of fate. At least she had escaped the horror that had befallen so many of their little band of brothers, Ruth reminded herself; though she might have missed Zoe, in the days following her banishment, at least she could comfort herself knowing that the girl was still living.

"She's happy, in Chile," Tom continued. "Married, two kids. But she was surprised to hear about the two of you."

 _There it is,_ Ruth thought, hiding her smile behind her half-empty glass of wine. Likely Tom had been surprised as well, and was choosing to use Zoe as a vehicle to ask his own questions. And perhaps it was surprising, that Harry Pearce, imposing and formidable and cold as ice when the moment called for it, could have thrown in his lot with a girl like Ruth, awkward and bumbling and hopelessly naive. There was no way to explain this to Tom, Ruth knew, to explain how time had changed her, had molded her into a new creature, one who belonged by Harry's side.

"I for one wasn't surprised at all," Malcolm mused, his eyes flashing across Ruth's face for a moment, searching for forgiveness she had granted long ago.

"Me neither," Beth said with a saucy toss of her head, and Harry let out a hearty chuckle.

"I was," he murmured.

Ruth leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. "I wasn't," she said firmly.

At long last they could linger no more; once more there were hugs and handshakes all around, and promises to see one another again, though none of them was so foolish as to think such a meeting of the minds could happen any time soon. Malcolm was retired and Tom and Beth were private contractors, and Ruth and Harry remained firmly in place upon the wall. It would not be easy, for them to make time for each other again, but Ruth was determined that they should. Her life was full of joy, now, where before it had been only shadows, and she wanted her friends to share in her happiness.

In the backseat of the taxi Harry once more wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and Ruth curled into his side, her nose brushing against his neck as the little car jostled them to and fro. They had come such a very long way, over the course of their lives together, and Ruth could not wait to see where they would go from here.


End file.
